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Little Women
By
Louisa May Alcott
Contents
"Christmas won't be
Christmas without any presents," grumbledJo, lying on the rug.
"It's so dreadful to be
poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
"I don't think it's fair
for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at
all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
"We've got Father and M=
other,
and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner.
The four young faces on which
the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as=
Jo
said sadly,
"We haven't got Father,=
and
shall not have him for a long time."
She didn't say "perhaps
never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where=
the
fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; t=
hen
Meg said in an altered tone,
"You know the reason Mo=
ther
proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is
going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend
money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do
much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But=
I
am afraid I don't." And Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully=
of
all the pretty things she wanted.
"But I don't think the little =
we should
spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be =
much
helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or yo=
u,
but I do want to buy UNDINE AND SINTRAM for myself. I've wanted it so
long," said Jo, who was a bookworm.
"I planned to spend min=
e in
new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the
hearth brush and kettle holder.
"I shall get a nice box=
of
Faber's drawing pencils. I really need them," said Amy decidedly.
"Mother didn't say anyt=
hing
about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy
what we want, and have a little fun. I'm sure we work hard enough to earn
it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manne=
r.
"I know I do--teaching =
those
tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at
home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again.
"You don't have half su=
ch a
hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for
hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never
satisfied, and worries you till you you're ready to fly out the window or
cry?"
"It's naughty to fret, =
but
I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the
world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well =
at
all." And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one coul=
d hear
that time.
"I don't believe any of=
you
suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't have to go to school w=
ith
impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh=
at
your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when y=
our
nose isn't nice."
"If you mean libel, I'd=
say
so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised
Jo, laughing.
"I know what I mean, and
you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and impr=
ove
your vocabilary," returned Amy, with dignity.
"Don't peck at one anot=
her,
children. Don't you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo?
Dear me! How happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, =
who could
remember better times.
"You said the other day=
you
thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighti=
ng
and fretting all the time, in spite of their money."
"So I did, Beth. Well, I
think we are. For though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and =
are
a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."
"Jo does use such slang
words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretch=
ed
on the rug.
Jo immediately sat up, put h=
er
hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
"Don't, Jo. It's so
boyish!"
"That's why I do it.&qu=
ot;
"I detest rude, unladyl=
ike
girls!"
"I hate affected,
niminy-piminy chits!"
"Birds in their little
nests agree," sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that b=
oth
sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that
time.
"Really, girls, you are
both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sister=
ly
fashion."You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave
better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl, but
now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you ar=
e a
young lady."
"I'm not! And if turnin=
g up
my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried
Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to
think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster!=
It's
bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manne=
rs!
I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And it's worse than =
ever
now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and
knit, like a poky old woman!"
And Jo shook the blue army s=
ock
till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the ro=
om.
"Poor Jo! It's too bad,=
but
it can't be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name
boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the roug=
h head
with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not ma=
ke
ungentle in its touch.
"As for you, Amy,"=
continued
Meg, "you are altogether to particular and prim. Your airs are funny n=
ow,
but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I I li=
ke
your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be
elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."
"If Jo is a tomboy and =
Amy
a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.
"You're a dear, and not=
hing
else," answered Meg warmly, and
no one contradicted her, for the `Mouse' was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know
`how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of=
the
four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow
fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a com=
fortable
room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good
picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums=
and
Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home p=
eace
pervaded it.
Margaret, the eldest of the
four, was sixteen, and very pretty,
being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a =
sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen- year-old Jo =
was
very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seeme=
d to
know what to do with her long limbs,
which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical =
nose,
and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns
fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but =
it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had J=
o,
big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable
appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't li=
ke
it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth- haired,
bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a ;peac=
eful
expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her `Little Miss T=
ranquility',
and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy worl=
d of
her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy,
though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at lea=
st.
A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her
shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady
mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will
leave to be found out.
The clock struck six and, ha=
ving
swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the
sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was com=
ing,
and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted =
the
lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as=
she
sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
"They are quite worn ou=
t.
Marmee must have a new pair."
"I thought I'd get her =
some
with my dollar," said Beth.
"No, I shall!" cri=
ed
Amy.
"I'm the oldest,"
began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided,&n=
bsp;
"I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provid=
e the
slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was
gone."
"I'll tell you what we'=
ll
do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas, land=
not
get anything for ourselves."
"That's like you, dear!
What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.
Everyone thought soberly for=
a
minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her
own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves."
"Army shoes, best to be
had," cried Jo.
"Some handkerchiefs, all
hemmed," said Beth.
"I'll get a little bott=
le
of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to=
buy
my pencils," added Amy.
"How will we give the
things?" asked Meg.
"Put them on the table,=
and
bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used t=
o do
on our birthdays?" answered Jo.
"I used to be so fright=
ened
when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all =
come
marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the
kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the
bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at
the same time.
"Let Marmee think we are
getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping
tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas
night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back,=
and
her nose in the air.
"I don't mean to act an=
y more
after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, w=
ho
was as much a child as ever about `dressing-up' frolics.
"You won't stop, I know=
, as
long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear
gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an =
end of
everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse
tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as=
a
poker in that."
"I can't help it. I nev=
er
saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue,
tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I
shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at =
me
with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> but was chosen because she was sma=
ll enough
to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
"Do it this way. Clasp =
your
hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, `Roderigo Save m=
e!
Save me!' and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly
thrilling.
Amy followed, but she poked =
her
hands out stiffly before her, and
jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" w=
as
more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gav=
e a
despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as
she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can w=
hen
the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg.&q=
uot;
"Then things went smoot=
hly,
for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single br=
eak.
Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmer=
ing
toads, with weird effect. Rod=
erigo
rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and
arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!"
"It's the best we've had
yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.
"I don't see how you can
write and act such splendid things,
Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly b=
elieved
that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
"Not quite," repli=
ed
Jo modestly. "I do think THE WITCHES CURSE, an Operatic Tragedy is rat=
her
a nice thing, but I'd like to try McBETH, if we only had a trapdoor for Ban=
quo.
I always wanted to do the killing part. `Is that a dagger that I see before
me?" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she ha=
d seen
a famous tragedian do.
"No, it's the toasting
fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!&q=
uot;
cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.
"Glad to find you so me=
rry,
my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience tu=
rned
to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a `can I help you' look about her whi=
ch
was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking wo=
man,
and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the m=
ost splendid
mother in the world.
"Well, dearies, how have
you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go to=
morrow,
that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your col=
d,
Meg? Jo, you look tired to de=
ath.
Come and kiss me, baby."
While making these maternal =
inquiries
Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in
the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of
her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each=
in
her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,
dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth trotted=
to
and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions t=
o everyone,
as she sat with her hands folded.
As they gathered about the
table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a tr=
eat
for you after supper."
A quick, bright smile went r=
ound
like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit
she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Th=
ree cheers
for Father!"
"Yes, a nice long lette=
r. He
is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we fea=
red.
He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message =
to
you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a
treasure there.
"Hurry and get done! Do=
n't
stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cri=
ed
Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the car=
pet
in her haste to get at the treat.
Beth ate no more, but crept =
away
to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the
others were ready.
"I think it was so sple=
ndid
in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not stro=
ng
enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly.
"Don't I wish I could g=
o as
a drummer, a vivan--what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and
help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.
"It must be very
disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, a=
nd
drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.
"When will he come home=
, Marmee?
asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.
"Not for many months, d=
ear,
unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he ca=
n,
and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now co=
me
and hear the letter."
They all drew to the fire, M=
other
in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of
the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of
emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were w=
ritten
in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers =
sent
home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers fac=
ed,
or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of
lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at t=
he
end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the
little girls at home.
"Give them all of my de=
ar
love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, =
and
find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very lon=
g to
wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work,=
so
that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I sa=
id
to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty
faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so
beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than =
ever
of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo
wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and =
Amy
never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's
shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be
better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by-and-by."
We all will," cried Meg.
"I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if=
I
can help it."
"I'll try and be what he
loves to call me, `a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty
here instead of wanting to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that
keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two
down South.
Beth said nothing, but wiped=
away
her tears with the blue army sock and began to knit with all her might, los=
ing
no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her q=
uiet
little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year brought r=
ound
the happy coming home.
Mrs. March broke the silence
that followed Jo's words, by saying in her cheery voice, "Do you remem=
ber
how you used to play Pilgrims Progress when you were little things? Nothing
delighted you more than to have me tie my piece bags on your backs for burd=
ens, give you hats and sticks and rolls=
of
paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the =
City
of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things
you could collect to make a Celestial City."
"What fun it was, espec=
ially
going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the valley where=
the
hob-goblins were," said Jo.
"I liked the place where
the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs," said Meg.
"I don't remember much
about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and al=
ways
liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasn't too old for such
things, I'd rather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to
talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve.
"We never are too old f=
or
this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way =
or
another. Out burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for
goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and=
mistakes
to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppo=
se
you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get
before Father comes home."
"Really, Mother? Where =
are
our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady.
"Each of you told what =
your
burden was just now, except Beth. I rather think she hasn't got any," =
said
her mother.
"Yes, I have. Mine is
dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of
people."
Beth's bundle was such a fun=
ny
one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt =
her
feelings very much.
"Let us do it," sa=
id Meg
thoughtfully. "It is only another name for trying to be good, and the
story may help us, for though we do want to be good, it's hard work and we
forget, and don't do our best."
"We were in the Slough =
of Despond
tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ough=
t to
have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?&q=
uot;
asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very =
dull
task of doing her duty.
"Look under your pillows
christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook," replied Mrs. Mar=
ch.
They talked over the new plan
while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work bask=
ets,
and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was
uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan o=
f dividing
the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Afri=
ca,
and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked
about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.
At nine they stopped work, a=
nd
sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much mus=
ic
out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys =
and making
a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice lik=
e a
flute, and she and herr mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always com=
ing
out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensi=
ve
tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp...
Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'ta=
r,
and it had become a househol=
d custom,
for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her vo=
ice
as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at nigh=
t was
the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.
Jo was the first to wake in =
the gray
dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a mo=
ment
she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell
down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her
mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little
crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old
story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook=
for
any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christ=
mas,"
and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, =
with
the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made
their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke =
to
rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue,=
and
all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the
coming day.
In spite of her small vaniti=
es,
Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her
sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because=
her
advice was so gently given.
"Girls," said Meg
seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night=
-capped
ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind th=
ese
books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but sinc=
e Father
went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many thi=
ngs.
You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and re=
ad a
little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and h=
elp
me through the day.
Then she opened her new book=
and
began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read a=
lso,
with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, =
let's
do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'' explain things=
if
we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty
books and her sisters, example.
"I'm glad mine is
blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages we=
re
softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads a=
nd
serious faces with a Christmas greeting.
"Where is Mother?"
asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour
later.
"Goodness only knows. s=
ome
poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was
needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clo=
thes
and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg w=
as
born, and was considered by t=
hem
all more as a friend than a servant.
"She will be back soon,=
I
think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking
over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa,
ready to be produced at the proper time. "why, where is Amy's bottle of
cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear.
"She took it out a minu=
te
ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion,"
replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new =
army
slippers.
"How nice my handkerchi=
efs look,
don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all
myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters whi=
ch
had cost her such labor.
"Bless the child! She's
gone and put `Mother' on them instead of `M. March'. How funny!" cried=
Jo,
taking one up.
"Isn't that right? I th=
ought
it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want
anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking troubled.
"It's all right, dear, =
and
a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It
will please her very much, I
know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.
"There's Mother. Hide t=
he
basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the h=
all.
Amy came in hastily, and loo=
ked
rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.
"Where have you been, a=
nd what
are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood a=
nd
cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early.
"Don't laugh at me, Jo!=
I
didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change t=
he
little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm tru=
ly
trying not to be selfish any more."
As she spoke, Amy showed the
handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humb=
le
in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and=
Jo pronounced
her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
ornament the stately bottle.
"You see I felt ashamed=
of
my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I r=
an
round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for m=
ine
is the handsomest now."
Another bang of the street d=
oor
sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for
breakfast.
"Merry Christmas, Marme=
e! Many
of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day,"
they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad=
you
began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before=
we
sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn ba=
by.
Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have =
no
fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me
they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your brea=
kfast
as a Christmas present?"
They were all unusually hung=
ry,
having waited nearly an hour, and
for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,
"I'm so glad you came before we began!"
"May I go and help carry
the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly.
"I shall take the cream=
and
the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most li=
ked.
Meg was already covering the=
buckwheats,
and piling the bread into one big plate.
"I thought you'd do
it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go =
and
help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, a=
nd
make it up at dinnertime."
They were soon ready, and th=
e procession
set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so f=
ew
people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party.
A poor, bare, miserable room=
it
was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing
baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, try=
ing
to keep warm.
How the big eyes stared and =
the
blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
"Ach, mein Gott! It is =
good
angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy.
"Funny angels in hoods =
and
mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing.
In a few minutes it really d=
id seem
as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, ma=
de a
fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs.=
March
gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, whi=
le
she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls
meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them li=
ke so
many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny br=
oken
English.
"Das ist gut!"
"Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed
their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called
angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had
been considered a `Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy b=
reakfast,
though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think th=
ere
were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls w=
ho
gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on
Christmas morning.
"That's loving our neig=
hbor
better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their
presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor
Hummels.
Not a very splendid show, but
there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the t=
all
vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in=
the
middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.
"She's coming! Strike u=
p,
Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing
about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor.
Beth played her gayest march,
amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. Ma=
rch
was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examin=
ed
her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers
went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scent=
ed with
Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were=
pronounced
a perfect fit.
There was a good deal of lau=
ghing
and kissing and explaining, i=
n the
simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the
time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work.
The morning charities and ce=
remonies
took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for =
the
evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and =
not
rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls =
put their
wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever th=
ey
needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, ant=
ique
lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous
robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and
armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left inn sheets when=
the
lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many
innocent revels.
No gentleman were admitted, =
so
Jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense satisfaction i=
n a
pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who kne=
w an
actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an arti=
st
for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. =
The
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to =
take
several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard =
work
they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of
various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for
their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwi=
se
would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.
On christmas night, a dozen
girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue
and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There =
was
a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp
smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in =
the
excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart,
and the OPERATIC TRAGEDY began.
"A gloomy wood,"
according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, gre=
en
baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a
clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace =
in full
blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage w=
as
dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real stea=
m issued
from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for=
the
first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking
sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the
boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, a=
nd
burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for
Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gr=
uff
tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame =
him,
were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for
breath. bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to=
the
cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho,
minion! I need thee!"
Out came Meg, with gray hors=
ehair
hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs
upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one dest=
roy
Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to
call up the spirit who would bring the love philter.
Hither, hither, from thy hom=
e, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born=
of
roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with
elfin speed, The fragrant phi=
lter
which I need. Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my son=
g!
A soft strain of music sound=
ed,
and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, =
with
glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a
wand, it sang...
Hither I come, From my airy
home, Afar in the silver moon=
. Take
the magic spell, And use it w=
ell, Or
its power will vanish soon!
And dropping a small, gilded=
bottle
at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced
another apparition, not a lov=
ely
one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply,
tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having
warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hag=
ar
informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times p=
ast,
she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him.
Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discuss=
ing
the merits of the play.
A good deal of hammering wen=
t on
before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiec=
e of
stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly
superb. A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a la=
mp
burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue =
and
silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed =
cap,
red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling=
at
the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied an=
d,
after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of t=
he
play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one =
end,
and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her ha=
nd
on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracfully down when "Ala=
s!
Alas for Zara!" she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tow=
er
tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers =
in
the ruins.
A universal shriek arose as =
the
russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaim=
ing,
"I told you so! I told you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, =
Don
Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed=
in,
dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...
"Don't laugh! Act as if=
it
was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him form the kingd=
om
with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower up=
on
him, Roderigo defied the old =
gentleman
and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She also defied her=
sire,
and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout lit=
tle
retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened
and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made.
Act third was the castle hal=
l,
and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She
hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine =
and
bid the the timid little servant, "Bear them to the captives in their
cells, and tell them I shall =
come
anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar
changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the `minion=
',
carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant=
for
Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his w=
its,
and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while
Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody=
.
This was a truly thrilling
scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down=
of
a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death=
. He
was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading
Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the=
performance
put together.
Act fourth displayed the des=
pairing
Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara
has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung
under his window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can=
save
her if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm =
of
rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady
love.
Act fifth opened with a stor=
my
scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but s=
he
won't hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roder=
igo
dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. =
They
shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to
bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter a=
nd a
bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the pa=
rty
that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don=
Pedro,
if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin
money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitte=
r.
This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all joi=
n in
a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive =
Don
Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
Tumultuous applause followed=
but
received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was
built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo
and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though man=
y were
speechless with laughter. the excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah
appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk do=
wn
to supper."
This was a surprise even to =
the
actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous
amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anythi=
ng
so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was=
ice
cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and
distracting french bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouq=
uets
of hot house flowers.
It quite took their breath a=
way,
and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as =
if
she enjoyed it immensely. "Is it fairies?" asked Amy.
"Santa Claus," said
Beth.
"Mother did it." A=
nd
Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows.
"Aunt March had a good =
fit
and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.
"All wrong. Old Mr.
Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.
"The Laurence boy's
grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don't know
him!' exclaimed Meg.
"Hannah told one of his
servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that
pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this
afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling
toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I cou=
ld
not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the
bread-and-milk breakfast."
"That boy; put it into =
his
head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquain=
ted.
He looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she
won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went
round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of
satisfaction.
"You mean the people who
live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the girls.
"My mother knows old Mr. Laurence,&nb=
sp;
but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors.=
He
keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor,=
and
makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't come.
Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls."
"Our cat ran away once,=
and
he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on
capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked
off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does,"=
said
Jo decidedly.
"I like his manners, an=
d he
looks like a little gentleman, so I've no objection to your knowing him, if=
a
proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have
asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so
wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his
own."
"It's a mercy you didn'=
t , Mother!"
laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll have another play sometime
that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?"
"I never had such a fine
bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with g=
reat
interest.
"They are lovely. But
Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-de=
ad
posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to her, and
whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm afraid =
he
isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are."
"Jo! Jo! Where are
you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
"Here!" answered a
husky voice from above, and, running up,&n=
bsp;
Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redcl=
yffe,
wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. =
This
was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen ru=
ssets
and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived =
near
by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into h=
is hole.
Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.
"Such fun! Only see! A
regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cri=
ed
Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish
delight.
"`Mrs. Gardiner would be
happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's
Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?"
"What's the use of aski=
ng
that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anyth=
ing
else?" answered Jo with her mouth full.
"If I only had a
silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, =
but
two years is an everlasting time to wait."
"I'm sure our pops look
like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I =
forgot
the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, a=
nd I
can't take any out."
"You must sit still all=
you
can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a=
new
ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new
slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I=
'd
like."
"Mine are spoiled with
lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,"
said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
"You must have gloves, =
or I
won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than
anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so
mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company
dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut
capers."
"You can't ask Mother f=
or
new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you
spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't y=
ou
make them do?"
"I can hold them crumpl=
ed
up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can d=
o.
No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad
one. Don't you see?"
"Your hands are bigger =
than
mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose glov=
es
were a tender point with her.
"Then I'll go without. I
don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book.
"You may have it, you m=
ay!
Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you,=
or
stare, or say `Christopher Columbus!' will you?"
"Don't worry about me. =
I'll
be as prim ad I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go =
and
answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story."
So Meg went away to `accept =
with
thanks', look over her dress, and
sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
On New Year's Eve the parlor=
was
deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder
were absorbed in the all-important business of `getting ready for the party=
'.
Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, =
laughing
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the hou=
se.
Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered
locks with a pair of hot tongs.
"Ought they to smoke li=
ke that?"
asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
"It's the dampness
drying," replied Jo.
"What a queer smell! It=
's
like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls wi=
th a
superior air.
"There, now I'll take o=
ff
the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting
down the tongs.
She did take off the papers,=
but
no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the
horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau
before her victim.
"Oh, oh, oh! What have =
you
done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, look=
ing
with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
"Just my luck! You
shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, =
but
the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo,
regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret.
"It isn't spoiled. Just=
frizzle
it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will
look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy
consolingly.
"Serves me right for tr=
ying
to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly.
"So do I, it was so smo=
oth
and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss
and comfort the shorn sheep.
After various lesser mishaps,
Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family =
Jo's
hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple sui=
ts, Meg's
in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. =
Jo
in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemu=
m or
two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one
soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine".
Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would n=
ot
own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head,=
which was not exactly comfortable,=
but,
dear me, let us be elegant or die.
"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window...<= o:p>
"Girls, girls! Have you=
you
both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?"
"Yes, yes, spandy nice,=
and
Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo,&n=
bsp;
adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would=
ask
that if we were all running away from an earthquake.
"It is one of her
aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by n=
eat
boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many lit=
tle
`aristocratic tastes' of her own.
"Now don't forget to ke=
ep
the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look v=
ery
bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressi=
ng
room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me do=
ing
anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, givi=
ng
her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.
"No, winking isn't lady=
like.
I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. =
Now
hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if=
you
are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing."
"How do you learn all t=
he proper
ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?"
Down they went, feeling a tr=
ifle
timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gatheri=
ng
was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted th=
em kindly
and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and
was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish
gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as =
much
out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were
talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and =
join
them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish=
to
Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one=
came
to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left al=
one.
She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would sh=
ow,
so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was as=
ked
at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would ha=
ve
guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed y=
outh
approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped int=
o a
curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunate=
ly,
another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell
behind her, she found herself face to face with the `Laurence boy'.
"Dear me, I didn't know=
anyone
was here!" stammered Jo, preparing
to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
But the boy laughed and said
pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, "Don't mind me, stay if
you like."
"Shan't I disturb
you?"
"Not a bit. I only came
here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you
know."
"So did I. Don't go awa=
y,
please, unless you'd rather."
The boy sat down again and l=
ooked
at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "I think I've
had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?"
"Next door." And he
looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when =
he
remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home.=
That put Jo at her ease and =
she
laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "We did have such a go=
od
time over your nice Christmas present."
"Grandpa sent it."=
"But you put it into his
head, didn't you, now?"
"How is your cat, Miss
March?" asked the boy, trying to look=
sober while his black eyes shone with fun.
"Nicely, thank you, Mr.
Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young la=
dy.
"I'm not Mr. Laurence, =
I'm
only Laurie."
"Laurie Laurence, what =
an
odd name."
"My first name is theod=
ore,
but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made the say Laur=
ie
instead."
"I hate my name, too, so
sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you
make the boys stop calling you Dora?"
"I thrashed `em."<= o:p>
"I can't thrash Aunt Ma=
rch,
so I suppose I shall have to bear it." And Jo resigned herself with a
sigh.
"Don't you like to danc=
e, Miss
Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.
"I like it well enough =
if
there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm s=
ure
to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I =
keep
out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"
"Sometimes. You see I've
been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to =
know
how you do things here."
"Abroad!." cried J=
o.
"Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their
travels."
Laurie didn't seem to know w=
here
to begin, but Jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how =
he
had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet=
of boats
on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland wi=
th
their teachers.
"Don't I wish I'd been
there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?"
"We spent last winter
there."
"Can you talk French?&q=
uot;
"We were not allowed to
speak anything else at Vevay."
"Do say some! I can read
it, but can't pronounce."
"Quel nom a cetter jeune
demoiselle en les pantoulles jolis?"
"How nicely you do it! =
Let
me see...you said, `Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't
you?"
"Oui, mademoiselle.&quo=
t;
"It's my sister Margare=
t,
and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?"
"Yes, she makes me thin=
k of
the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.&quo=
t;
Jo quite glowed with pleasur=
e at
this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both
peeped and critisized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances.
Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused an=
d set
him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was
forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the `Laurence =
boy'
better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might desc=
ribe
him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys
were almost unknown creatures to them.
"Curly black hair, brown
skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, tall=
er
than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he
is?"
It was on the tip of Jo's to=
ngue
to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to fi=
nd
out in a round-about way.
"I suppose you are goin=
g to
college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying
hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful `pegging' which had escaped her.=
Laurie smiled but didn't seem
shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two. I won't go
before seventeen, anyway.&quo=
t;
"Aren't you but
fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined sev=
enteen
already.
"Sixteen, next month.&q=
uot;
"How I wish I was going=
to
college! You don't look as if you liked it."
"I hate it! Nothing but
grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this
country." "What do you like?"
"To live in Italy, and =
to
enjoy myself in my own way."
Jo wanted very much to ask w=
hat
his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit t=
hem,
so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a=
splendid
polka! Why don't you go and try it?"
"If you will come
too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.
"I can't, for I told me=
g I
wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to
tell or to laugh.
"Because, what?"
"You won't tell?"<= o:p>
"Never!"
"Well, I have a bad tri=
ck
of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this o=
ne,
and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no
one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know."=
But Laurie didn't laugh. He =
only
looked dawn a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said
very gently, "Never mind=
that.
I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can
dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come."
Jo thanked him and gladly we=
nt, wishing
she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partn=
er
wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced wel=
l, and taught her the German step, wh=
ich
delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they =
sat
down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an
account of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search o=
f her
sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, whe=
re
she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
"I've sprained my ankle.
That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can
hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she sa=
id,
rocking to and fro in pain.
"I knew you'd hurt your=
feet
with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except =
get
a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the p=
oor
ankle as she spoke.
"I can't have a carriage
without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for mo=
st
people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to
send." "I'll go."
"No, indeed! It's past
nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie h=
as
some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the b=
est
I can."
"I'll ask Laurie. He wi=
ll
go," said Jo," looking relieved as the idea occurred to her.
"Mercy, no! Don't ask or
tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I c=
an't
dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me =
the
minute she comes."
"They are going out to =
supper
now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather."
"No, dear, run along, a=
nd
bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't stir."
So Meg reclined, with rubbers
well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found
after going into a china closet, and opening the door of a room where old M=
r.
Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the tabl=
e,
she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the f=
ront
of her dress as bad as the back.
"Oh, dear, what a
blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by scrubbing her
gown with it.
"Can I help you?" =
said
a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a p=
late
of ice in the other.
"I was trying to get
something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me, and here I am i=
n a
nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to =
the
coffee-colored glove.
"Too bad! I was looking=
for
someone to give this to. May I take it to your sister?"
"Oh, thank you! I'll sh=
ow
you where she is. I don't offer to take it myself, for I should only get in=
to
another scrape if I did."
Jo led the way, and as if us=
ed
to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second
installment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particu=
lar
Meg pronounced him a `nice boy'. They had a merry time over the bonbons and
mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of BUZZ, with two or three o=
ther
young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot =
and
rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamatio=
n of
pain.
"Hush! Don't say
anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my
foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. =
Hannah
scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till se decided to take th=
ings
into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, aske=
d if
he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew noth=
ing
about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who h=
ad heard
what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had ju=
st
come for him, he said.
"It's so early! You can=
't
mean to go yet?" began Jo. looking relieved but hesitating to accept t=
he
offer.
"I always go early, I d=
o,
truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it ra=
ins,
they say."
That settled it, and telling=
him
of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the res=
t of
the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, =
and
they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and
elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls
talked over their party in freedom.
"I had a capital time. =
Did you?'
asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable.
"Yes, till I hurt mysel=
f.
Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and
spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring when the
opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me
go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought.
"I saw you dancing with=
the
red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?"
"Oh. very! His hair is
auburn, not red, and he was very polite,&n=
bsp;
and I had a delicious redowa with him."
"He looked like a grass=
hopper
in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did=
you
hear us?"
"No, but it was very ru=
de.
What were you about all that time, <=
/span>hidden
away there?"
Jo told her adventures, and =
by
the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said go=
od
night and crept in, hoping to
disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bo=
bbed
up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...
"Tell about the party! =
Tell
about the party!"
With what Meg called `a great
want of manners' Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they s=
oon
subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening.
"I declare, it really s=
eems
like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and=
sit
in my dressing gown wit a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up
her foot with arnica and brushed her hair.
"I don't believe fine y=
oung
ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burned hair,=
old
gowns, one glove apiece and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we a=
re
silly enough to wear them," And I think Jo was quite right.
"Oh, dear, how hard it =
does
seem to take up our packs and go on," sighed Meg the morning after the
party, for now the holidays were over, the week of merrymaking did not fit =
her
for going on easily with the task she never liked.
"I wish it was Christma=
s or
New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be fun?" answered Jo, yawning
dismally.
"We shouldn't enjoy our=
selves
half so much as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers =
and
bouquets, and go to parties, =
and
drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It's like other people, you kn=
ow,
and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so fond of luxury," sa=
id
Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby.
"Well, we can't have it=
, so
don't let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfull=
y as
Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but=
I
suppose when I've learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble
off, or get so light that I shan't mind her."
This idea tickled Jo's fancy=
and
put her in good spirits, but Meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consistin=
g of
four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough e=
ven
to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressi=
ng her
hair in the most becoming way.
"Where's the use of loo=
king
nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether=
I'm
pretty or not?" she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I=
shall
have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and the=
n,
and get old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as
other girls do. It's a shame!"
So Meg went down, wearing an
injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable at breakfast time. Everyone seemed
rather out of sorts and inclined to croak.
Beth had a headache and lay =
on
the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens. Amy was
fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her
rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready.
Mrs. March was very busy try=
ing
to finish a letter, which mus=
t go
at once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
"There never was such a=
cross
family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand,
broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her hat.
"You're the crossest pe=
rson
in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the
tears that had fallen on her slate.
"Beth, if you don't keep
these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them drowned," exclaimed Meg
angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her ba=
ck
and stuck like a burr just out of reach.
Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth
implored, and Amy wailed because she couldn't remember how much nine times
twelve was.
"Girls, girls, do be qu=
iet
one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distrac=
ted
with your worry," cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled
sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, =
broken
by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked=
out
again. These turnovers were an institution, and the girls called them `muff=
s',
for they had no others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hand=
s on
cold mornings.
Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other lunch and were seldom home before two.<= o:p>
"Cuddle your cats and g=
et
over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. We are a set of rascals this
morning, but we'll come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!" And Jo tr=
amped
away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.
They always looked back befo=
re
turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window to nod and sm=
ile,
and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got
through the day without that, for whatever their mood might be, the last
glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
"If Marmee shook her fi=
st
instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrat=
eful
wretches than we are were never seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful s=
atisfaction
in the snowy walk and bitter wind. "Don't use such dreadful
expressions," replied Meg from the depths of the veil in which she had
shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
"I like good strong wor=
ds
that mean something," replied Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap o=
ff
her head preparatory to flying away altogether.
"Call yourself any names
you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch and I don't choose to be
called so."
"You're a blighted bein=
g,
and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the
time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in
carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed
boys to dance with."
"How ridiculous you are,
Jo!" But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herse=
lf.
"Lucky for you I am, fo=
r if
I put on crushed airs and tried to be dismal, as you do, we should be in a =
nice
state. Thank goodness, I can always find something funny to keep me up. Don=
't
croak any more, but come home jolly, there's a dear."
Jo gave her sister an encour=
aging
pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way,
each hugging her little warm turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in sp=
ite
of wintry weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving
youth.
When Mr. March lost his prop=
erty
in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the two oldest girls begged to be
allowed to do something toward their own support, at least. Believing that =
they
could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence,
their parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will wh=
ich
in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.
Margaret found a place as
nursery governess and felt rich with her small salary. As she said, she was
`fond of luxury', and her chief trouble was poverty. She found it harder to
bear than the others because she could remember a time when home was beauti=
ful,
life full of ease and pleasure, and
want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but =
it
was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay
friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw all=
she
wanted, for the children's older sisters were just out, and Meg caught freq=
uent
glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about the=
aters,
concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds, and saw money
lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seld=
om
complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward everyone
sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the
blessings which alone can make life happy.
Jo happened to suit Aunt Mar=
ch,
who was lame and needed an active person to wait upon her. The childless old
lady had offered to adopt one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her =
offer
was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost all chance =
of being
remembered in the rich old lady's will, but the unworldly Marches only said=
...
"We can't give up our g=
irls
for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will keep together and be happy in o=
ne
another."
The old lady wouldn't speak =
to
them for a time, but happening to meet Jo at at a friend's, something in he=
r comical
face and blunt manners struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take
her for a companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place
since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkab=
ly
well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once=
Jo
marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it longer, but Aunt March always
cleared up quickly, and sent for her to come back again with such urgency t=
hat
she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lad=
y.
I suspect that the real
attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and
spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who u=
sed
to let her build railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her =
stories
about queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread
whenever he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts star=
ing
down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of all,=
the
wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked, made the lib=
rary
a region of bliss to her.
The moment Aunt March took h=
er
nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling
herself up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, a=
nd
pictures like a regular bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last
long, for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweet=
est
verse of a song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill v=
oice
called, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine! and she had to leave her paradise to =
wind
yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.
Jo's ambition was to do some=
thing
very splendid. What it was, she had no idea as yet, but left it for time to
tell her, and meanwhile, found her greatest affliction in the fact that she
couldn't read, run, and ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp
tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her l=
ife
was a series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the
training she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed, and the tho=
ught
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite of =
the
perpetual "Josy-phine!"
Beth was too bashful to go to
school.It had been tried, but=
she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with=
her
father. Even when he went away, and
her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid
Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. S=
he
was a housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved.
Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little world was
peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee. There were
six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for Beth was a child st=
ill and
and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or handsome one among the=
m, all
were outcasts till Beth took them in, for when her sisters outgrew these id=
ols,
they passed to her because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherish=
ed
them all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for
infirm dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh wo=
rds
or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart or the mo=
st
repulsive, but all were fed and clothed,&n=
bsp;
nursed and caressed with an affection which never failed. One forlorn
fragment of dollanity had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life,
was left a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued=
by
Beth and taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat
little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies=
by
folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid. =
If
anyone had known the care lavished on that dolly, I think it would have tou=
ched
their hearts, even while they laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she
read to it, took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sa=
ng it
lullabies and never went to be without kissing its dirty face and whispering
tenderly, "I hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."
Beth had her troubles as wel=
l as
the others, and not being an angel but a very human little girl, she often
`wept a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and
have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practi=
ced
away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if
someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe =
the
tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alo=
ne. She
sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and =
the
girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself," I know I'll get my
music some time, if I'm good."
There are many Beths in the
world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others=
so
cheerfully that no one sees t=
he
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sw=
eet,
sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
If anybody had asked Amy what
the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "=
My
nose." When she was a baby, Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal
hod, and Amy insisted that th=
e fall
had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor `Petrea's', =
it
was only ratherflat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an=
aristocratic
point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but=
Amy
felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome o=
nes
to console herself.
"Little Raphael," =
as
her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so
happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories w=
ith
queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her s=
ums
she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used =
to
copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came flutte=
ring
out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as wel=
l as
she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment.=
She
was a great favorite with her mates,
being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without
effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for b=
esides
her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without
mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of
saying, "When Papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very
touching, and her long words were considered `perfectly elegant' by the gir=
ls.
Amy was in a fair way to be
spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses =
were
growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to
wear her cousin's clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, =
and
Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, w=
ell
made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especia=
lly
this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and n=
o trimming.
"My only comfort,"=
she
said to Meg, with tears in her eyes,
"is that Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm n=
aughty,
as Maria Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes =
she
is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When I
think of this deggerredation, I fell that I can bear even my flat nose and =
purple
gown with yellow skyrockets on it."
Meg was Amy's confidante and
monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Beth's. =
To
Jo alone didthe shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarums=
ister
Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyonein the family. The t=
wo
older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the youn=
ger
sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, `playing moth=
er' they
called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the
maternal instinct of litte women.
"Has anybody got anythi=
ng to
tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm really dying for some amusement,"
said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.
"I had a queer time with
Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell you about it," beg=
an
Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was reading that everlasting
Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for Aunt soon drops off, and then=
I
take out some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up. I actually m=
ade
myself sleepy, and before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she ask=
ed
me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at
once.
"I wish I could, and be
done with it," said I, trying not to be saucy.
"Then she gave me a long
lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just
`lost' herself for a moment. She never finds herself very soon, so the minu=
te
her cap began to bob like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the VICAR OF WAKEFI=
ELD
out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I'd j=
ust
got to where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out =
loud.
Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me to read a =
bit
and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy and instructive Bels=
ham.
I did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said...
"I don't understand wha=
t it's
all about. Go back and begin it, child."
"Back I went, and made =
the
Primroses as interesting as ever I could. Once I was wicked enough to stop =
in a
thrilling place, and say meekly, "I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am. Shan=
't I
stop now?"
"She caught up her knit=
ting,
which had dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs,=
and
said, in hershort way, `Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent,
miss'."
"Did she own she liked
it?" asked Meg.
"Oh, bless you, no! But=
she
let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back after my gloves this afternoon, t=
here
she was, so hard at the Vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a j=
ig
in the hall because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might
have if only she chose! I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for a=
fter
all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," add=
ed
Jo.
"That reminds me,"
said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't funny, like Jo's
story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came home. At the Kings' tod=
ay I
found everybody in a flurry, =
and
one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadfu=
l,
and Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking v=
ery
loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so I
shouldn't see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn't ask any questio=
ns,
of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was rather glad I hadn't any wi=
ld brothers
to do wicked things and disgrace the family."
"I think being disgrace=
d in
school is a great deal tryinger than anything bad boys can do," said A=
my,
shaking her head, as if her experience of life had been a deep one. "S=
usie
Perkins came to school today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it =
dreadfully,
and wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr. Davis, with a
monstrous nose and a hump, an=
d the
words, `Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a bal=
loon
thing. We were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye was on us, and=
he
ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parrylized with fright, but she
went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by the ear--the ear! Ju=
st fancy
how horrid!--and led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand the=
re
half and hour, holding the slate so everyone could see."
"Didn't the girls laugh=
at
the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the scrape.
"Laugh? Not one! They s=
at
still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know she did. I didn't envy her th=
en,
for I felt that millions of carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy aft=
er
that. I never, never should have got over such a agonizing mortification.&q=
uot;
And Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the
successful utterance of two long words in a breath.
"I saw something I liked
this morning, and I meant to tell it at dinner, but I forgot," said Be=
th, putting
Jo's topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked. "When I went to get so=
me
oysters for Hannah, Mr. Laure=
nce
was in the fish shop, but he didn't see me, for I kept behind the fish barr=
el,
and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fishman. A poor woman came in with a pa=
il a
mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of
fish, because she hadn't any dinner for her children, and had been disappoi=
nted
of a day's work. Mr. Cutter was in a hurry and said `No', rather crossly, so
she was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a=
big
fish with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so gl=
ad
and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him over and ove=
r.
He told her to go along and cook it', and she hurried off, so happy! Wasn't=
it good
of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hopi=
ng
Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven would be `aisy'."
When they had laughed at Bet=
h's
story, they asked their mother for one, and after a moments thought, she sa=
id
soberly, "As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets today at the rooms=
, I
felt very anxious about Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we shou=
ld be
, if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on
worrying till an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down
near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and anxio=
us.
"`Have you sons in the =
army?'
I asked, for the note he brought was not to me. "Yes, ma'am. I had fou=
r,
but two were killed, one is a prisoner,&nb=
sp;
and I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospita=
l.' he
answered quietly.
"`You have done a great
deal for your country, sir, ' I said,
feeling respect now, instead of pity.
"`Not a mite more than I
ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any use. As I ain't, I give my boys, =
and
give 'em free.'
"He spoke so cheerfully,
looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that I was ashamed of
myself. I'd given one man and thought it too much, while he gave four witho=
ut
grudging them. I had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son w=
as
waiting, miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so hap=
py thinking
of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and
thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."
"Tell another story,
Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them
afterward, if they are real and not too preachy," said Jo, after a
minute's silence.
Mrs. March smiled and began =
at
once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and =
knew
how to please them.
"Once upon a time, there
were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comf=
orts
and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they
were not contented."(Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another,
and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and=
made
many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were =
constantly
saying, `If only we had this, ' or `If we could only do that, ' quite
forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually cou=
ld
do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy,
and she said, `When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be
grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but chan=
ged
her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)
"Being sensible girls, =
they
decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they
were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich
people's houses, another that,
though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, =
and
good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her
comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was
harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings
were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, =
to
enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they s=
hould
be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never
disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."
"Now, Marmee, that is v=
ery
cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon ins=
tead
of a romance!" cried Meg. "I like that kind of sermon. It's the s=
ort
Father used to tell us," said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles
straight on Jo's cushion.
"I don't complain near =
as
much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for I've =
had
warning from Susies's downfall," said Amy morally.
"We needed that lesson,=
and
we won't forget it. If we do so, you
just say to us, as old Chloe did in UNCLE TOM, `Tink ob yer marcies, chille=
n!
`Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting =
a morsel
of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any=
of
them.
"What in the world are =
you
going to do now, Jo." Asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came
tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broo=
m in
one hand and a shovel in the other.
"Going out for
exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
"I should think two long
walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out, and I ad=
vise
you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver=
.
"Never take advice! Can=
't
keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the f=
ire.
I like adventures, and I'm going to find some."
Meg went back to toast her f=
eet
and read IVANHOE, and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was
light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for B=
eth
to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the
garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood i=
n a
suburb of the city, which was still countrylike, with groves and lawns, lar=
ge
gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side=
was
an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines th=
at
in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the o=
ther
side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort =
and
luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory =
and the
glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.
Yet it seemed a lonely, life=
less
sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever
smiled at the windows, and few
people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.
To Jo's lively fancy, this f=
ine
house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights whi=
ch
no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to =
know
the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only kn=
ew
how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making
friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he=
had
gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking =
wistfully
down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another.
"That boy is suffering =
for
society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know
what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of j=
olly
boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go ov=
er
and tell the old gentleman so!"
The idea amused Jo. who like=
d to
do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances.=
The
plan of `going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jo resolved to try what could be d=
one. She
saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, a=
nd
then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and too=
k a
survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sigh=
t,
and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at =
the
upper window.
"There he is," tho=
ught
Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll =
toss
up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him."=
Up went a handful of soft sn=
ow,
and the head turned at once, =
showing
a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened=
and
the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she ca=
lled
out...
"How do you do? Are you
sick?"
Laurie opened the window, and
croaked out as hoarsely as a raven...
"Better, thank you. I've
had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."
"I'm sorry. What do you
amuse yourself with?"
"Nothing. It's dull as
tombs up here."
"Don't you read?"<= o:p>
"Not much. They won't l=
et
me."
"Can't somebody read to
you?"
"Grandpa does sometimes,
but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.&quo=
t;
"Have someone come and =
see
you then."
"There isn't anyone I'd
like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak."
"Isn't there some nice =
girl
who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse."
"Don't know any."<= o:p>
"You know us," beg=
an
Jo, then laughed and stopped.
"So I do! Will you come,
please?" cried Laurie.
"I'm not quiet and nice,
but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, lik=
e a
good boy, and wait till I come."
With that, Jo shouldered her=
broom
and marched into the house, w=
ondering
what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the
idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, for as Mrs. March said=
, he
was `a little gentleman'. and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his
curly pate, putting on a fresh color, and trying tidy up the room, which in
spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came=
a
loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for `Mr. laurie', and a surprised- =
looking
servant came running up to announce a young lady.
"All right, show her up,
it's Miss Jo, "said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to =
meet
Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in
one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other.
"Here I am, bag and
baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad i=
f I
could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blancmange, s=
he
makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew
you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do someth=
ing."
It so happened that Beth's f=
unny
loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his
bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.
"That looks too pretty =
to
eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and sh=
owed
the blancmange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet
flowers of Amy's pet geranium.
"It isn't anything, only
they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for
your tea. It's so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down
without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!"
"It might be it it was =
kept
nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It
worries me though."
"I'll right it up in two
minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so--and the things m=
ade
straight on the mantelpiece, =
so--and
the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the li=
ght,
and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you're fixed."
And so he was, for, as she l= aughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different ai= r to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned h= im to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...<= o:p>
"How kind you are! Yes,
that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do somethin=
g to
amuse my company."
"No, I came to amuse yo=
u.
Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting
books near by.
"Thank you! I've read a=
ll
those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie.
"Not a bit. I'll talk a=
ll day
if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop."
"Is Beth the rosy one, =
who
stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?"
asked Laurie with interest.
"Yes, that's Beth. She'=
s my
girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and t=
he
curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"
Laurie colored up, but answe=
red
frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and wh=
en
I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem=
to
be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometim=
es
you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And
when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire,=
and
you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite, and =
it
looks so sweet behind the flowers, <=
/span>I
can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie
poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not
control.
The solitary, hungry look in=
his
eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. she had been so simply taught that t=
here
was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as
any child. Laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home=
and
happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly
and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...
"We'll never draw that
curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just =
wish,
though, instead of peeping, y=
ou'd
come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and
Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I w=
ould
make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. =
Wouldn't
your grandpa let you?" &=
quot;I
think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not
look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a both=
er to
strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more.
"We are not strangers, =
we
are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you,
and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a gre=
at
while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but
you."
"You see, Grandpa lives
among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my
tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, =
so I
just stop at home and get on as I can."
"That's bad. You ought =
to
make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have
plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. =
It
won't last long if you keep going."
Laurie turned red again, but=
wasn't
offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will i=
n Jo
it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were mea=
nt.
"Do you like your
school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, du=
ring
which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased.
"Don't go to school, I'=
m a
businessman--girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross=
old
soul she is, too," answered Jo.
Laurie opened his mouth to a=
sk
another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to ma=
ke
too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked
uncomfortable.
Jo liked his good breeding, =
and
didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively descript=
ion
of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and
the library where she reveled.
Laurie enjoyed that immensel=
y,
and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt Ma=
rch,
and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his=
great
dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, an=
d a
maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.
"Oh! That does me no en=
d of
good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushi=
on,
red and shining with merriment.
Much elated with her success=
, Jo
did `tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for
Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the si=
sters
lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found
that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than hers=
elf.
"If you like them so mu=
ch,
come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid,"
said Laurie, getting up.
"I'm not afraid of anyt=
hing,"
returned Jo, with a toss of the head.
"I don't believe you
are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though h=
e privately
thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentlem=
an,
if she met hem in some of his moods.
The atmosphere of the whole
house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo st=
op
to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the libr=
ary,
where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially
delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and
distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow
chairs, and queer tables, and
bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round
it.
"What richness!"
sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her wi=
th an
air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the
happiest boy in the world," she added impressively.
"A fellow can't live on
books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposit=
e.
Before he could more, a bell
rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! It's your gran=
dpa!"
"Well, what if it is? Y=
ou
are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicke=
d.
"I think I am a little =
bit afraid
of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I d=
on't
think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though=
she
kept her eyes on the door.
"I'm a great deal bette=
r for
it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking=
to
me. It was so pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie grateful=
ly.
"The doctor to see you,=
sir,"
and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
"Would you mind if I le=
ft
you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie.
"Don't mind me. I'm hap=
py
as a cricket here," answered Jo.
Laurie went away, and his gu=
est
amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of t=
he
old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said
decidedly, "I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's g=
ot
kind eyes, though his mouth is
grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as
handsome as my grandfather, but I like him."
"Thank you, ma'am,"
said a gruff voice behind her, and there,&=
nbsp;
to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.
Poor Jo blushed till she cou=
ldn't
blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she tho=
ught
what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, bu=
t that
was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and=
get
out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living ey=
es,
under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones, and there=
was
a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice=
was
gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after the dreadful
pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?"
"Not much, sir."
"And you don't think me=
as
handsome as your grandfather?"
"Not quite, sir."<= o:p>
"And I've got a tremend=
ous
will, have I?"
"I only said I thought
so."
"But you like me in spi=
te
of it?"
"Yes, I do, sir."<= o:p>
That answer pleased the old =
gentleman.
He gave a short laugh, shook =
hands
with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, exami=
ned
it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather'=
s spirit,
if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he=
was
a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend."
"Thank you, sir," =
And
Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly.
"What have you been doi=
ng
to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put.
"Only trying to be
neighborly, sir." And Jo to how her visit came about.
"You think he needs che=
ering
up a bit, do you?"
"Yes, sir, he seems a
little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls,
but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid
Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly.
"Tut, tut, tut! That was
the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"
"Doing nicely, sir.&quo=
t;
And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in w=
hom
her mother had interested richer friends than they were.
"Just her father's way =
of
doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so.
There's the tea bell, we have=
it
early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly."
"If you'd like to have =
me,
sir."
"Shouldn't ask you, if =
I didn't."
And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
"What would Meg say to
this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with=
fun
as she imagined herself telling the story at home.
"Hey! Why, what the dic=
kens
has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running
downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight =
of
Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather.
"I didn't know you'd co=
me,
sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.
"That's evident, by the=
way
you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a
gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr.
Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions
behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.=
The old gentleman did not say
much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who
soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not =
escape
him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his
manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.
"She's right, the lad is
lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr.
Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways
suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she h=
ad been
one herself.
If the Laurences had been wh=
at
Jo called `prim and poky', she
would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkwa=
rd.
But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impress=
ion.
When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to
show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for=
her
benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks,
enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet =
air,
and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend=
cut
the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo lik=
ed to
see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medici=
ne
she sent me very much."
They found Mr. Laurence stan=
ding
before the fire in the great drawing room, by Jo's attention was entirely
absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.
"Do you play?" she
asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression.
"Sometimes," he
answered modestly.
"Please do now. I want =
to
hear it, so I can tell Beth."
"Won't you first?"=
"Don't know how. Too st=
upid
to learn, but I love music dearly."
So Laurie played and Jo list=
ened,
with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect a=
nd
regard for the `Laurence' boy increased very much, for he played remarkably
well and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did
not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather
came to his rescue.
"That will do, that will
do, young lady. too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isn't b=
ad,
but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? well, I'm mu=
ch
obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. G=
ood
night, Doctor Jo."
He shook hands kindly, but
looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo
asked Laurie if she had said something amiss. He shook his head.
"No, it was me. He does=
n't
like to hear me play."
"Why not?"
"I'll tell you some day=
. John
is going home with you, as I can't." "No need of that. I am not a
young lady, and it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't you?"
"Yes, but you will come
again, I hope?"
"If you promise to come=
and
see us after you are well."
"I will."
"Good night, Laurie!&qu=
ot; "Good
night, Jo, good night!"
When all the afternoon's adv=
entures
had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each
found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the
hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not
forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the
grand piano. and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.
"Mother, why didn't Mr.
Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo, who was of an inquiring
disposition.
"I am not sure, but I t=
hink
it was because his son, Laurie's father, married an Italian lady, a musicia=
n,
which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and love=
ly
and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he
married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his
grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not v=
ery
strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful.
Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and=
I
dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At any ra=
te, his
skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he `glowered' as Jo
said."
"Dear me, how
romantic!" exclaimed Meg.
"How silly!" said =
Jo.
"Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sen=
ding
him to college, when he hates to go."
"That's why he has such
handsome black eyes and pretty manners,&nb=
sp;
I suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a littl=
e sentimental.
"What do you know about=
his
eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who w=
as
not sentimental.
"I saw him at the party,
and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little
speech about the medicine Mother sent him."
"He meant the blanc man=
ge,
I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of
course."
"Did he?" And Jo
opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before.
"I never saw such a gir=
l! You
don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a
young lady who knew all about the matter.
"I think they are great
nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a n=
ice
boy and I like him, and I won=
't
have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be
good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see =
us,
mayn't he, Marmee?"
"Yes, Jo, your little
friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be
children as long as they can."
"I don't call myself a
child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. "What do you s=
ay,
Beth?"
"I was thinking about o=
ur
`PILGRIM'S PROGRESS'," answered Beth,=
who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and thr=
ough
the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, a=
nd
that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace
Beautiful."
"We have got to get by =
the
lions first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.
The big house did prove a Pa=
lace
Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it ve=
ry
hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he =
had
called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with the=
ir
mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion w=
as
the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich, for this made them shy of
accepting favors which they could not return. But, after a while, they foun=
d that
he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how
grateful he was for Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, =
and
the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their
pride and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the
greater.
All sorts of pleasant things=
happened
about that time, for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Ev=
ery
one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches
were regularly splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of yout=
h, they took the solitary boy into th=
eir
midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the
innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mo=
ther
or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and=
their
busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tire=
d of
books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged to m=
ake
very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always playing truant and runni=
ng
over to the Marches'.
"Never mind, let him ta=
ke a
holiday, and make it up afterward," said the old gentleman. "The =
good
lady next door says he is studying too hard and needs young society, amusem=
ent,
and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I've been coddling the fello=
w as
if I'd been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is hap=
py. He
can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is
doing more for him than we can."
What good times they had, to=
be sure.
Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasa=
nt
evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the=
great
house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in
bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old
gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her
heart's content, and Laurie played `lord of the manor' in the most delightf=
ul
style.
But Beth, though yearning for
the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the `Mansion of Bliss'=
, as
Meg called it. She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being awar=
e of
her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said
"Hey!" so loud, that he frightened her so much her `feet chattere=
d on
the floor', she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would
never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or ent=
icements
could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in some
mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the brief calls=
he
made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about grea=
t singers
whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes
that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept near=
er
and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and stoo=
d listening,
with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with excitement of this un=
usual
performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr.
Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers. And presently, as if
the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March...
"The boy neglects his m=
usic
now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano s=
uffers
for want of use. Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practice=
on
it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma`am?"
Beth took a step forward, and
pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them, for this was=
an
irresistible temptation, and the thought of practicing on that splendid ins=
trument
quite took her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence wen=
t on
with an odd little nod and smile...
"They needn't see or sp=
eak
to anyone, but run in at any time. For I'm shut up in my study at the other=
end
of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near t=
he drawing
room after nine o'clock."
Here he rose, as if going, a=
nd Beth
made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be
desired. "Please, tell the young ladies what I say, and if they don't =
care
to come, why, never mind." Here a little hand slipped into his, and Be=
th
looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest=
yet
timid way...
"Oh sir, they do care, =
very
very much!" "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any
startling "Hey!" as he looked down at her very kindly.
"I'm Beth. I love it
dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be di=
sturbed,"
she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spo=
ke.
"Not a soul, my dear. T=
he
house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and=
I
shall be obliged to you."
"How kind you are,
sir!"
Beth blushed like a rose und=
er the
friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a
grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gif=
t he
had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, =
and,
stooping down, he kissed herr, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...
"I had a little girl on=
ce,
with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day. madam." And aw=
ay
he went, in a great hurry.
Beth had a rapture with her
mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of
invalids, as the girls were not home. How blithely she sang that evening, a=
nd
how they all laughed at her because she woke Amy in the night by playing the
piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young
gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got i=
n at
the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing =
room
where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music=
lay
on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to listen and l=
ook
about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her
fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the mu=
sic
gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend.
She stayed till Hannah came =
to take
her home to dinner, but she had no appetite, and could only sit and smile u=
pon
everyone in a general state of beatitude.
After that, the little brown
hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room=
was
haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that =
Mr.
Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She=
never
saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never
suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack
were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about mu=
sic
at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so
much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the cas=
e,
that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was=
so
grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her. At any rate she
deserved both. "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slipp=
ers.
He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can =
I do
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
"Yes, dear. It will ple=
ase
him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you a=
bout
them, and I will pay for the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took
peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's requests because she so seldom asked
anything for herself.
After many serious discussio=
ns with
Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers
begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was
pronounced very appropriate and pretty, and beth worked away early and late,
with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman,=
and
they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote a short,
simple note, and with Laurie's help, got them smuggled onto the study table=
one
morning before the old gentleman was up.
When this excitement was ove=
r, Beth
waited to see what would happen. All day passed a a part of the next before=
any
acknowledgement arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her
crochety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an
errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she =
came
up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads popping in and=
out
of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were wave=
d,
and several joyful voices screamed...
"Here's a letter from t=
he
old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"
"Oh, Beth, he's sent
you..." began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy, but she got no =
further,
for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window.
Beth hurried on in a flutter=
of
suspense. At the door her sisters seized and bore her to the parlor in a
triumphal procession, all pointing and all saying at once, "Look there!
Look there!" Beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise,=
for
there stood a little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid,
directed like a sign board to "Miss Elizabeth March."
"For me?" gasped B=
eth,
holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an
overwhelming thing altogether.
"Yes, all for you, my
precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you think he's the dearest old ma=
n in
the world? Here's the key in the letter. We didn't open it, but we are dyin=
g to
know what he says," cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note=
.
"You read it! I can't, I
feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and Beth hid her face in Jo's ap=
ron,
quite upset by her present.
Jo opened the paper and bega=
n to
laugh, for the first worked she saw were...
"Miss March: "Dear
Madam--" "How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me
so!" said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.
"`I have had many pairs=
of
slippers in my life, but I never had any that suited me so well as yours, '=
"
continues Jo. "`Heartsease is my favorite flower, and these will always
remind me of the gentle giver. I like to pay my debts, so I know you will a=
llow
`the old gentleman' to send you something which once belonged to the little=
grand
daughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain "`Your
grateful friend and humble servant,
"`JAMES LAURENCE'
"There, Beth, that's an
honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me how fond Mr.Laurence used to=
be
of the child who died, and how he kept all her little things carefully. Just
think, he's given you her piano. That comes of having big blue eyes and lov=
ing
music," said Jo, trying to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more
excited than she had ever been before.
"See the cunning bracke=
ts
to hold candles, and the nice green sild, puckered up, with a gold rose in =
the
middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all complete," added Meg, openi=
ng
the instrument and displaying its beauties.
"`Your humble servant, =
James
Laurence'. Only think of his writing that to you. I'll tell the girls. They=
'll
think it's splendid," said Amy, much impressed by the note.
"Try it, honey. Let's h=
ear
the sound of the baby pianny," said Hannah, who always took a share in=
the
family joys and sorrows.
So Beth tried it, and everyo=
ne
pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard. It had evidently been n=
ewly
tuned and put in apple- pie order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real
charm lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth
lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright
pedals.
"You'll have to go and
thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke, for the idea of the child's rea=
lly
going never entered her head.
"Yes, I mean to. I guess
I'll go no, before I get frightened thinking about it." And, to the ut=
ter
amazement of the assembled family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden=
, through
the hedge, and in at the Laurences' door.
"Well, I wish I may die=
if
it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The pianny has turned her head! She=
'd
never have gone in her right mind," cried Hannah, staring after her, w=
hile
the girls were rendered quite speechless by the miracle.
They would have been still m=
ore
amazed if they had seen what Beth did afterward. If you will believe me, she
went and knocked at the study door before she gave herself time to think, a=
nd
when a gruff voice called out, "come in!" she did go in, right up=
to Mr.
Laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a small quaver i=
n her
voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for..." But she didn't finish, =
for
he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech and, only remembering that=
he
had lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms round his neck and kis=
sed him.
If the roof of the house had
suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished. B=
ut
he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly! And was so touched and p=
leased
by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just=
set
her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling =
as
if he had got his own little grand daughter back again. Beth ceased to fear=
him
from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if she had known
him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride.=
When
she went home, he walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, a=
nd
touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, l=
ike a
handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.
When the girls saw that perf=
ormance,
Jo began to dance a jig, by way of expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly =
fell
out of the window in her surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands,=
"Well, I do believe the world=
is
coming to an end.
"That boy is a perfect
cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseb=
ack,
with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
"How dare you say so, w=
hen
he's got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too," cried J=
o,
who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.
"I didn't day anything =
about
his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding.&qu=
ot;
"Oh, my goodness! That
little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed=
Jo,
with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude, it's only a `lapse =
of
lingy', as Mr.Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin.
"I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,&=
quot;
she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
"Why?" asked Meg
kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder.
"I need it so much. I'm=
dreadfully
in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month."
"In debt, Amy? What do =
you
mean?" And Meg looked sober.
"Why, I owe at least a
dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for
Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop."
"Tell me all about it. =
Are
limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make
balls." And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and
important.
"Why, you see, the girls
are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do=
it
too. It's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desk=
s in
schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or
something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime.=
If
she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a
suck. They treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned t=
hem,
and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know."
"How much will pay them=
off
and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse."
"A quarter would more t=
han
do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like
limes?"
"Not much. You may have=
my
share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very
plenty, you know."
"Oh, thank you! It must=
be
so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted=
a
lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them,
and I'm actually suffering for one."
Next day Amy was rather late=
at
school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable
pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost
recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March =
had
got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to t=
reat
circulated through her `set', and the attentions of her friends became quite
overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary
Kinglsey insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a
satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state,
promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appal=
ling
sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about `some per=
sons
whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up
people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed `=
that
Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite
all of a sudden, for you won't get any."
A distinguished personage ha=
ppened
to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received
praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused
Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas!
Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with
disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments
and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important qu=
estion,
informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her de=
sk.
Now Mr. Davis had declared l=
imes
a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first pers=
on
who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in
banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of th=
e confiscated
novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden
distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one =
man could
do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough=
to
human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especiall=
y to
nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching t=
han
Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and olog=
ies
of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings,
and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most
unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evi=
dently
taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which alw=
ays
affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he=
felt
he deserved. Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a
schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear".
The word `limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he
rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with un=
usual
rapidity.
"Young ladies, attentio=
n,
if you please!"
At the stern order the buzz =
ceased,
and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed =
upon
his awful countenance.
"Miss March, come to the
desk."
Amy rose to comply with outw=
ard
composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her
conscience.
"Bring with you the lim=
es you
have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her befo=
re
she got out of her seat.
"Don't take all." =
whispered
her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.
Amy hastily shook out half a
dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possess=
ing
a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose.
Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable
pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.
"Is that all?"
"Not quite," stamm=
ered
Amy.
"Bring the rest
immediately."
With a despairing glance at =
her
set, she obeyed.
"You are sure there are=
no
more?'
"I never lie, sir."=
;
"So I see. Now take the=
se
disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window."
There was a simultaneous sig=
h,
which created quite a little gust, <=
/span>as
the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longinglips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy =
went
to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so pl=
ump
and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed=
the
anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted o=
ver by
the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This--this was too mu=
ch.
All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one
passionate lime lover burst into tears.
As Amy returned from her las=
t trip,
Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!" and said, in his most impressi=
ve
manner...
"Young ladies, you reme=
mber
what I said to you a week ago. Iam sorry this has happened, but I never allow my=
rules
to be infringed, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold out your
hand."
Amy started, and put both ha=
nds
behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better t=
han
the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with `old Davis', =
as,
of course, he was called, and=
it's
my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of =
one
irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as =
it
was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.
"Your hand, Miss
March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received, and too proud to=
cry
or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore with=
out
flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many=
nor
heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life s=
he
had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had kn=
ocked
her down.
"You will now stand on =
the
platform till recess," said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing
thoroughly, since he had begun.
That was dreadful. It would =
have
been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends=
, or
the satisfied ones of her few enemies, but to face the whole school, with t=
hat shame
fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she coul=
d only
drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense =
of
wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and, taking the
ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel above what now se=
emed
a sea of faces, and stood the=
re, so
motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathet=
ic
figure before them.
During the fifteen minutes t=
hat
followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain whi=
ch
she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, bu=
t to
her it was a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she h=
ad
been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her =
before.
The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting=
of
the thought, "I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so
disappointed in me!"
The fifteen minutes seemed a=
n hour,
but they came to an end at last, and the word `Recess!' had never seemed so
welcome to her before.
"You can go, Miss
March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.
He did not soon forget the r=
eproachful
glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into t=
he
anteroom, snatched her things=
, and
left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself.
She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived,
some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did no=
t say
much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in h=
er
tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Be=
th
felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like thi=
s,
Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and Hannah shook her fist at the
`villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestl=
e.
No notice was taken of Amy's
flight, except by her mates, but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that=
Mr.
Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just be=
fore
school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to =
the
desk, and delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy's property,
and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as=
if
she shook that dust of the place off her feet.
"Yes, you can have a
vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth,=
"
said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment,
especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't th=
ink
the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your fa=
ther's
advice before I send you anywhere else."
"That's good! I wish al=
l the
girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to th=
ink
of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.
"I am not sorry you lost
them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedienc=
e,"
was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected
nothing but sympathy.
"Do you mean you are gl=
ad I
was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy.
"I should not have chos=
en
that way of mending a fault," replied her mother, "but I'm not su=
re
that it won't do you more good than a molder method. You are getting to be
rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it.
You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of para=
ding
them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that r=
eal
talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousnes=
s of
possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all
power is modesty."
"So it is!" cried
Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl once,
who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it, never
guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and would=
n't
have believed it if anyone had told her."
"I wish I'd known that =
nice
girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who s=
tood
beside him, listening eagerly.
"You do know her, and s=
he
helps you better than anyone else could," answered Laurie, looking at =
her
with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly tu=
rned
very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an
unexpected discovery.
Jo let Laurie win the game t=
o pay
for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for th=
em
after her compliment. So Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being =
in a
particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody si=
de of
his character. When he was gone, amy, who had been pensive all evening, said
suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,&n=
bsp;
"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"
"Yes, he has had an
excellent education, and has much talent. He will make a fine man, if not
spoiled by petting," replied her mother.
"And he isn't conceited=
, is
he?" asked Amy.
"Not in the least. That=
is
why he is so charming and we all like him so much." "I see. It's =
nice
to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked
up," said Amy thoughtfully.
"These things are always
seen and felt in a person's manner and conversations, if modestly used, but=
it
is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March.
"Any more than it's pro=
per
to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know
you've got them," added Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.
"Girls, where are you
going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and
finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited h=
er
curiosity.
"Never mind. Little gir=
ls
shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply.
Now if there is anything
mortifying to out feelings when we are young, it is to be told that, and to=
be
bidden to "run away, dear" is still more trying to us. Amy bridle=
d up
at this insult, and determine=
d to
find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never
refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I sho=
uld
think you might let me go, too, for
Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so
lonely."
"I can't, dear, because=
you
aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Me=
g,
be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy, so don't be a baby and
whine about it."
"You are going somewher=
e with
Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering and laughing together on the so=
fa
last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"=
;
"Yes, we are. Now do be
still, and stop bothering."
Amy held her tongue, but used
her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.
"I know! I know! You're=
going
to the theater to see the SEVEN CASTLES!" she cried, adding resolutely,
"and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it, and I've got my rag
money, and it was mean not to tell me in time."
"Just listen to me a
minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly. "Mother doesn't
wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear=
the
light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and h=
ave
a nice time."
"I don't like that half=
as
well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me. I've been sick with this =
cold
so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so
good," pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.
"Suppose we take her. I=
don't
believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well," began Meg.
"If she goes I shan't, =
and
if I don't, Laurie won't like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited
only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself w=
here
she isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of
overseeing a fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself.
Her tone and manner angered =
Amy,
who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I
shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything t=
o do
with it."
"You can't sit with us,=
for
our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone, so Laurie will give you =
his
place, and that will spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you,=
and
that isn't proper when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step, so you may
just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just
pricked her finger in her hurry.
Sitting on the floor with one
boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called fr=
om
below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now
and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just =
as
the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening t=
one,
"You'll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain't."
"Fiddlesticks!"
returned Jo, slamming the door.
They had a charming time, for
THE SEVEN CASTLES OF THE DIAMOND LAKE was as brilliant and wonderful as hea=
rt
could wish. But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the =
gorgeous
princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The f=
airy
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she amused
herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her `sorry for it'.=
She
and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for bo=
th
had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased=
Jo,
and Jo irritated Amy, and semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both
were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least
self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was
continually getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and havi=
ng
humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better. =
Her
sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury because she
was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her =
bosom
enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her, and it took years of pat=
ient
effort to subdue it.
When they got home, they fou=
nd
amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in, never
lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosit=
y might
have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receiv=
e a
glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's
first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed=
her
feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything wa=
s in
its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags,
and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.
There Jo was mistaken, for n=
ext
day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were
sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looki=
ng
excited and demanding breathlessly, "Has anyone taken my book?"
Meg and Beth said,
"No." at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the fire and said
nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a minute.
"Amy, you've got it!&qu=
ot;
"No, I haven't."
"You know where it is,
then!"
"No, I don't."
"That's a fib!" cr=
ied
Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a mu=
ch
braver child than Amy.
"It isn't. I haven't got
it, don't know where it is now, and don't care."
"You know something abo=
ut
it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll make you." And Jo gave her a
slight shake.
"Scold as much as you l=
ike,
you'll never see your silly old book again," cried Amy, getting excite=
d in
her turn.
"why not?"
"I burned it up."<= o:p>
"What! My little book I=
was
so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home? Ha=
ve
you really burned it?" said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kind=
led
and her hands clutched Amy nervously.
"Yes, I did! I told you=
I'd
make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so..."
Amy got no farther, for Jo's=
hot
temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head,
crying in a passion of grief and anger...
"You wicked, wicked gir=
l! I
never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live.&quo=
t;
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and =
Beth
to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her
sister's ear, she rushed out =
of the
room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.
The storm cleared up below, =
for
Mrs. March came home, and, ha=
ving
heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her famil=
y as
a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy
tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into =
her
work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied th=
em
with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire
had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to
others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never co=
uld
be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to
defend her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no o=
ne
would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted
more than any of them.
When the tea bell rang, Jo
appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage=
to
say meekly...
"Please forgive me, Jo.=
I'm
very, very sorry."
"I never shall forgive =
you,"
was Jo's stern answer, and from that moment she ignored Amy entirely.
No one spoke of the great tr=
ouble,
not even Mrs. March, for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in =
that
mood words were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little =
accident,
or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment and healed the breach.=
It
was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother
read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the
sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing time came,=
for
Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg =
and
Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, =
the
flutelike voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of
tune.
As Jo received her good-night
kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, "My dear, don't let the sun go down
upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again
tomorrow."
Jo wanted to lay her head do=
wn
on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away, but tears wer=
e an
unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't q=
uite
forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because A=
my
was listening, "It was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to=
be
forgiven."
With that she marched off to
bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that h=
er
overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled
herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superi=
or virtue
in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder
cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she
dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the
fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got
home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about
being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set them a virtuous
example. "Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is
always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to
herself, and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skate=
s, and
looked out with an impatient exclamation.
"There! She promised I
should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it's no us=
e to
ask such a crosspatch to take me."
"Don't say that. You we=
re very
naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book, bu=
t I
think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right
minute," said Meg. "Go after them. Don't say anything till Jo has=
got
good-natured with Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do
some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart.&q=
uot;
"I'll try," said A=
my,
for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after t=
he
friends, who were just disappearing over the hill.
It was not far to the river,=
but
both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her
back. Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore,
sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
"I'll go on to the first
bend, and see if it's all right before we begin to race," Amy heard him
say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat =
and
cap.
Jo heard Amy panting after h=
er
run, stamping her feet and blowing on her fingers as she tried to put her
skates on, but Jo never turned and went slowly zigzagging down the river,
taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She=
had
cherished her anger till it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil
thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned t=
he
bend, he shouted back...
"Keep near the shore. It
isn't safe in the middle." Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet
and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon
she was harboring said in her ear...
"No matter whether she
heard or not, let her take care of herself."
Laurie had vanished round the
bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the=
the
smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still with a=
strange
feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on, but something held and tu=
rned
her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a s=
udden
crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart st=
and
still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone. She trie=
d to
rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them, and for a second, she could only s=
tand
motionless, staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood abo=
ve
the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried
out...
"Bring a rail. Quick,
quick!"
How she did it, she never kn=
ew,
but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying
Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm
and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they g=
ot
the child out, more frightened than hurt.
"Now then, we must walk=
her
home as fast as we can. Pile our things on her, while I get off these
confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tug=
ging
away at the straps which never seemed so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and cry=
ing,
they got Amy home, and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolle=
d in
blankets before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but fl=
own about,
looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her ha=
nds
cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was
comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she
called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.
"Are you sure she is
safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which mi=
ght
have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice.
"Quite safe, dear. she =
is
not hurt, and won't even take cold,
I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quick=
ly,"
replied her mother cheerfully.
"Laurie did it all. I o=
nly
let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault." And Jo
dropped down beside the bed in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that
had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her
gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon =
her.
"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than =
ever.
OH, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despa=
ir.
"Watch and pray, dear,
never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your
fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and
kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried even harder.
"You don't know, you ca=
n't
guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passi=
on.
I get so savage, I could hurt anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do
something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.=
Oh,
Mother, help me, do help me!"
"I will, my child, I wi=
ll.
Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve with all your soul
that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptat=
ions,
some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer=
them.
You think your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just l=
ike
it."
"Yours, Mother? Why, you
are never angry!" And for the moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
"I've been trying to cu=
re
it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry
nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I s=
till
hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to =
do
so."
The patience and the humilit=
y of
the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lectur=
e,
the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confid=
ence
given her. The knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to
mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure
it, though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a gir=
l of
fifteen.
"Mother, are you angry =
when
you fold your lips tight together and go out of the room sometimes, when Au=
nt
March scolds or people worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer=
to
her mother than ever before.
"Yes, I've learned to c=
heck
the hasty words that rise to my lips, and when I feel that they mean to bre=
ak
out against my will, I just g=
o away
for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and
wicked," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed =
and
fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.
"How did you learn to k=
eep
still? That is what troubles me, for the sharp words fly out before I know =
what
I'm about, and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt
people's feelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee
dear." "My good mother used to help me..."
"As you do us..."
interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
"But I lost her when I =
was
a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I =
was
too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and
shed a good many bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts =
I never
seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that i found it
easy to be good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me a=
nd
we were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by nat=
ure,
and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."
"Poor Mother! What help=
ed
you then?"
"Your father, Jo. He ne=
ver
loses patience, never doubts or complains, but always hopes, and works and =
waits
so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and=
comforted
me, and showed me that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have =
my
little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your
sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you when I
spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love,=
respect, and confidence of my chil=
dren
was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I wo=
uld
have them copy."
"Oh, Mother, if I'm ever
half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried Jo, much touched.
"I hope you will be a g=
reat
deal better, dear, but you must keep watch over your `bosom enemy', as fath=
er
calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning.=
Remember
it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brin=
gs
you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today."
"I will try, Mother, I =
truly
will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used =
to
see Father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very
kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight and went away. W=
as
he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly.
"Yes. I asked him to he=
lp me
so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that lit=
tle
gesture and kind look."
Jo saw that her mother's eyes
filled and her lips trembled as she spoke, and fearing that she had said too
much, she whispered anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you and to speak=
of it?
I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you,
and feel so safe and happy here."
"Mu Jo, you may say any=
thing
to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my g=
irls
confide in me and know how much I love them."
"I thought I'd grieved
you."
"No, dear, but speaking=
of
Father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfu=
lly
I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for
him."
"Yet you told him to go,
Mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if =
you
needed any help," said Jo, wondering.
"I gave my best to the =
country
I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we =
both
have merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in the end?=
If
I don't seem to need help, it=
is
because I have a better friend, even than Father, to comfort and sustain me=
. My
child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning and may be m=
any,
but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength=
and
tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The =
more
you love and trust Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wis=
dom.
His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but my
become the source of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this
heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and
sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother."
Jo's only answer was to hold=
her
mother close, and in the silence which followed the sincerest prayer she had
ever prayed left her heart without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, s=
he
had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetne=
ss
of self-denial and self-control, and led by her mother's hand, she had draw=
n nearer
to the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than tha=
t of
any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred and sighed in her
sleep, and as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, l Jo looked up w=
ith
an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
"I let the sun go down =
on
my anger. I wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, =
it
might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half alo=
ud,
as she leaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the
pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened =
her
eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart.
Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the
blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
"I do think it was the =
most
fortunate thing in the world that those children should have the measles ju=
st
now," said Meg, one April day, as she stood packing the `go abroady' t=
runk
in her room, surrounded by her sisters.
"And so nice of Annie M=
offat
not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight of fun will be regularly
splendid," replied Jo, looking like a windmill as she folded skirts wi=
th
her long arms.
"And such lovely weathe=
r,
I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons=
in
her best box, lent for the great occasion. "I wish I was going to =
have a
fine time and wear all these nice things," said Amy with her mouth ful=
l of
pins, as she artistically replenished her sister's cushion.
"I wish you were all go=
ing,
but as you can't, I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. =
I'm
sure it's the least I can do when you have been so kind, lending me things =
and
helping me get ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very
simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
"What did Mother give y=
ou
out of the treasure box?" asked Amy, who had not been present at the
opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of p=
ast
splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.
"A pair of silk stockin=
gs,
that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk, b=
ut
there isn't time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old
tarlatan."
"It will look nice over=
my
new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn't
smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it," said Jo, who lo=
ved
to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be =
of
much use.
"There is a lovely old-=
fashioned
pearl set in the treasure chest, but Mother said real flowers were the
prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I
want," replied Meg. "Now, let me see, there's my new gray walking
suit, just curl up the feathe=
r in my
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for
spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!"
"Never mind, you've got=
the
tarlatan for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white,&quo=
t;
said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul deligh=
ted.
"It isn't low-necked, a=
nd it
doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue housedress looks so w=
ell,
turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sa=
cque
isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't
like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one wit=
h a
yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I k=
now
I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a gold top,"
sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.
"Change it," advis=
ed
Jo.
"I won't be so silly, o=
r hurt
Marmee's feelings, when she took so much pains to get my things. It's a
nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not going to give up to it. My silk
stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear to len=
d me
yours, Jo. I feel so rich and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the =
old
ones cleaned up for common." And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glo=
ve
box. "Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you =
put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah's hands.
"No, I wouldn't, for th=
e smart
caps won't match the plain gowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks
shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.
"I wonder if I shall ev=
er
be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes and bows on my caps?" =
said
Meg impatiently.
"You said the other day=
that
you'd be perfectly happy if you could only go to Annie Moffat's," obse=
rved
Beth in her quiet way.
"So I did! Well, I am h=
appy,
and I won't fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wan=
ts,
doesn't it? There now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball
dress, which I shall leave for
Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the
half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlatan, whic=
h she
called her `ball dress' with an important air.
The next day was fine, and M=
eg
departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had
consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come
back more discontented than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had
promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightf=
ul
after a winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter we=
nt
to take her first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats were very fashio=
nable,
and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house a=
nd
the elegance of its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the=
frivolous
life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, with=
out
understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent
people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary mat=
erial
of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, dr=
ive
in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy
herself. It suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners a=
nd
conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use Fren=
ch
phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as
well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the mo=
re
she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she
thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very
destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stocki=
ngs.
She had not much time for re=
pining,
however, for the three young girls were busily employed in `having a good
time'. They shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theaters and=
operas
or frolicked at home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew ho=
w to
entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was
engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Mof=
fat
was a fat, jolly old gentlema=
n, who
knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a
fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and `Daisey', as
they called her, was in a fai=
r way
to have her head turned.
When the evening for the sma=
ll
party came, she found that the poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other gir=
ls
were putting on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed. So out=
came
the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's
crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and =
her
cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud. No one
said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie
her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms. But in the=
ir
kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as
she stood by herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about l=
ike
gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the
maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cov=
er
off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
"It's for Belle, of cou=
rse,
George always sends her some, but
these are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
"They are for Miss Marc= h, the man said. And here's a note," put in the maid, holding it to Meg.<= o:p>
"What fun! Who are they
from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the girls, fluttering about =
Meg
in a high state of curiosity and surprise.=
"The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," sa=
id Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
"Oh, indeed!" said
Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note into her pocket as a sort =
of
talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had
done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, =
she
laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in
dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering t=
hem
so prettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was `the sweetest li=
ttle
thing she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest went to
show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the
mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and fastened the ro=
ses
in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much
that evening, for she danced to her heart's content. Everyone was very kind,
and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she h=
ad a
remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who `the fresh little girl with =
the
beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she
`didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he gracefully expressed it.=
So
altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversati=
on,
which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory,
waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on =
the
other side of the flowery wall...
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen or seventeen, I
should say," replied another voice.
"It would be a grand th=
ing
for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie says they are very intimate now,
and the old man quite dotes on them."
"Mrs. M. has made her p=
lans,
I dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is. The girl evidently
doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs. Moffat.
"She told that fib about
her momma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came quite p=
rettily.
Poor thing! She'd be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think =
she'd
be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?"asked anot=
her
voice.
"She's proud, but I don=
't
believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is all she has got. She may tea=
r it
tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one."
Here Meg's partner appeared,=
to
find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. She was proud, and her p=
ride
was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and =
disgust
at what she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she
could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget=
it,
but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M. has made her
plans," "that fib about her mamma," and 'dowdy tarlatan,&quo=
t;
till she was ready to cry and rushhome to tell her troubles and ask for adv=
ice.
As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather exci=
ted,
she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She
was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she
could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were
cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well meant words, had ope=
ned
a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which ti=
ll
now she had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie
was spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother
was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, =
who
judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with =
the
simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest
calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless nigh=
t, and
got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ash=
amed
of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Every=
body
dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough =
even
to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck
Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a
tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly
betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not
understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a
sentimental air...
"Daisy, dear, I've sent=
an
invitation to your friend, Mr.Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know
him, and it's only a proper compliment to you."
Meg colored, but a mischievo=
us
fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely, "You are very kind, =
but
I'm afraid he won't come."
"Why not, Cherie?"
asked Miss Belle.
"He's too old."
"My child, what do you =
mean?
What is his age, I beg to know!" cried Miss Clara.
"Nearly seventy, I
believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her
eyes.
"You sly creature! Of c=
ourse
we meant the young man,"exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
"There isn't any, Lauri=
e is
only a little boy." And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the
sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover. "About you
age," Nan said.
"Nearer my sister Jo's,=
I
am seventeen in August," returned Meg, tossing her head.
"It's very nice of him =
to
send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie, looking wise about nothing.
"Yes, he often does, to=
all
of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and o=
ld Mr.
Laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children sho=
uld
play together." And Meg hoped they would say no more.
"It's evident Daisy isn=
't
out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
"Quite a pastoral state=
of
innocence all round," returned Miss Belle with a shrug.
"I'm going out to get s=
ome
little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?"
asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace.
"No, thank you,
ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for Thursday a=
nd
don't want a thing."
"Nor I..." began M=
eg,
but stopped because it occurred toher that she did want several things and
could not have them.
"What shall you wear?&q=
uot;
asked Sallie.
"My old white one again=
, if
I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night," said Meg,
trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
"Why don't you send home
for another?" said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady.
"I haven't got any
other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did not see it a=
nd
exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that?" How funny..." She
did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, sa=
ying
kindly...
"Not at all. Where is t=
he
use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't out yet? There's no need of
sending home, Daisy, even if =
you
had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown,=
and
you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?"
"You are very kind, but=
I
don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does well enough for a little girl
like me," said Meg.
"Now do let me please m=
yself
by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular litt=
le
beauty with a touch here and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you ar=
e done,
and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to t=
he
ball," said Belle in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn't refuse the offe=
r so
kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be `a little beauty' after
touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable
feelings toward the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Bel=
le shut
herself up with her maid, and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady.
They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some=
fragrant
powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hort=
ense
would have added `a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They laced =
her
into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so l=
ow
in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silv=
er
filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for
Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster=
of
tea-rose buds at the bosom and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her
pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the
last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a
shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the sati=
sfaction
of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"Mademoiselle is chatma=
nte,
tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affe=
cted
rapture.
"Come and show
yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the othe=
rs
were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, =
with
her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her =
heart
beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had
plainly told her that she was `a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the
pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a
jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered
like a party of magpies. "While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the=
management
of her skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your
silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands," sa=
id
Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
"You don't look a bit l=
ike
yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heap=
s of
taste, and you're quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't =
be
so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, tryi=
ng not
to care that Meg was prettier than herself.
Keeping that warning careful=
ly
in mind, Margaret got safely downstairs and sailed into the drawing rooms w=
here
the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered
that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of
people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no no=
tice
of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentle=
men,
who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but ask=
ed
to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to he=
r,
and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the
party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat
reply to one of them...
"Daisy March--father a
colonel in the army--one of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you
know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my N=
ed
is quite wild about her."
"Dear me!" said the
old lady, putting up her glass for another observation of Meg, who tried to=
look
as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs. The
`queer feeling' did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new =
part
of fine lady and so got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a
side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant f=
ear
lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting h=
er
fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be
witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opp=
osite,
she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and
disapproval also, she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet somethin=
g in
his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on. To comple=
te
her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Lauri=
e,
who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
"Silly creatures, to put
such thoughts into my head. I won't care for it, or let it change me a
bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the room to shake hands with her
friend.
"I'm glad you came, I w=
as afraid
you wouldn't." she said, with her most grown-up air.
"Jo wanted me to come, =
and
tell her how you looked, so I did," answered Laurie, without turning h=
is
eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone.
"What shall you tell
her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her, yet fee=
ling
ill at ease with him for the first time.
"I shall say I didn't k=
now
you, for you look so grown-up and unlike yourself, I'm quite afraid of
you," he said, fumbling at his glove button.
"How absurd of you! The=
girls
dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw
me?" said Meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved =
or
not. "Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.
"Don't you like me so?'
asked Meg.
"No, I don't," was=
the
blunt reply.
"Why not?" in an
anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled h=
ead,
bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that aba=
shed
her more than his answer, which had not particle of his usual politeness in=
it.
"I don't like fuss and
feathers."
That was altogether too much=
from
a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked away, saying petulantly, "Y=
ou
are the rudest boy I ever saw."
Feeling very much ruffled, s=
he went
and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave he=
r an
uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by,=
and
a minute after she heard him saying to his mother...
"They are making a fool=
of
that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but they have spoiled her entire=
ly.
She's nothing but a doll tonight."
"Oh, dear!" sighed
Meg. "I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own things, then I should n=
ot
have disgusted other people, or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of
myself."
She leaned her forehead on t=
he
cool pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains, never minding that her
favorite waltz had begun, till some one touched her, and turning, she saw L=
aurie,
looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out...
"Please forgive my
rudeness, and come and dance with me."
"I'm afraid it will be =
to disagreeable
to you," said Meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely.
"Not a bit of it, I'm d=
ying
to do it. Come, I'll be good. I don't like your gown, but I do think you are
just splendid." And he waved his hands, as if words failed to express =
his admiration.
Meg smiled and relented, and=
whispered
as they stood waiting to catch the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't t=
rip
you up. It's the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it."
"Pin it round your neck,
and then it will be useful," said, looking down at the little blue boo=
ts,
which he evidently approved of. Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for
having practiced at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young coup=
le
were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feel=
ing
more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
"Laurie, I want you to =
do
me a favor, will you?' said Meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath ga=
ve
out, which it did very soon though she would not own why.
"Won't I!" said La=
urie,
with alacrity.
"Please don't tell them=
at
home about my dress tonight. They won't understand the joke, and it will wo=
rry
Mother.'
"Then why did you do
it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added...
"I shall tell them myse=
lf
all about it, and `fess' to Mother how silly I've been. But I'd rather do it
myself. So you'll not tell, will you?"
"I give you my word I w=
on't,
only what shall I say when they ask me?"
"Just say I looked pret=
ty
well and was having a good time."
"I'll say the first wit=
h all
my heart, but how about the other? You don't look as if you were having a g=
ood time.
Are you?' And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer=
in
a whisper...
"No, not just now. Don'=
t think
I'm horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, =
and
I'm getting tired of it."
"Here comes Ned Moffat.=
What
does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his black brows as if he did not
regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.
"He put his name down f=
or three
dances, and I suppose he's coming for them. What a bore!" said Meg, as=
suming
a languid air which amused Laurie immensely.
He did not speak to her again
till suppertime, when he saw her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend
Fisher, who were behaving `like a pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself,
for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and fight t=
heir
battles whenever a defender was needed.
"You'll have a splittin=
g headache
tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't l=
ike
it, you know," he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to =
refill
her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
"I'm not Meg tonight, I=
'm
`a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my `=
fuss
and feathers' and be desperately good again," se answered with an affe=
cted
little laugh.
"Wish tomorrow was here,
then," muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw =
in
her.
Meg danced and flirted, chat=
tered
and giggled, as the other girls did. After supper she undertook the German,=
and
blundered through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and=
romping
in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. Bu=
t he
got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say
good night.
"Remember!" she sa=
id,
trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.
"Silence a` la mort,&qu=
ot;
replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.
This little bit of byplay ex=
cited
Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feelin=
g as
if she had been to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she e=
xpected.
She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with
her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had `sat in the lap of luxury' long
enough.
"It does seem pleasant =
to
be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice plac=
e,
though it isn't splendid," said Meg, looking about her with a restful
expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
"I'm glad to hear you s=
ay so,
dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine
quarters," replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks th=
at
day. For motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces.
Meg had told her adventures =
gayly
and said over and over what a charming time she had had, but something still
seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to b=
ed,
she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried=
. As
the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair and,
taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying bravely=
...
"Marmee, I want to
`fess'."
"I thought so. What is =
it,
dear?"
"Shall I go away?"
asked Jo discreetly.
"Of course not. Don't I=
always
tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger childr=
en,
but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."=
"We are prepared,"
said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious.
"I told you they dresse=
d me
up, but I didn't tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and
made me look like a fashion plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know he
did, though he didn't say so, and one man called me `a doll'. I knew it was
silly, but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."
"Is that all?" ask=
ed
Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daught=
er,
and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.
"No, I drank champagne =
and
romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable," said Meg
self-reproachfully.
"There is something mor=
e, I
think." And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew ro=
sy
as Meg answered slowly...
"Yes. It's very silly, =
but
I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things
about us and Laurie."
Then she told the various bi=
ts
of gossip she had heard at the Moffats', and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother
fold her lips tightly, as if =
ill
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.
"Well, if that isn't the
greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo indignantly. "Why didn't=
you
pop out and tell them so on the spot?'
"I couldn't, it was so
embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing at first, and then I was so an=
gry
and ashamed, I didn't remember that I ought to go away."
"Just wait till I see A=
nnie
Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of
having `plans' and being kind to Laurie because he's rich and may marry us
by-and-by! Won't he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about=
us
poor children?" And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing str=
uck
her as a good joke.
"If you tell Laurie, I'=
ll never
forgive you! She mustn't, mus=
t she,
Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
"No, never repeat that
foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can," said Mrs. March gra=
vely.
"I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little,
kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas abo=
ut
young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit
may have done you, Meg."
"Don't be sorry, I won't
let it hurt me. I'll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I d=
id
enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I'll not be
sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'=
ll stay
with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised =
and
admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half
ashamed of the confession.
"That is perfectly natu=
ral,
and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to=
do
foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is w=
orth
having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as
well as pretty, Meg."
Margaret sat thinking a mome=
nt,
while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a lit=
tle
perplexed, for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about
admiration, lovers, and things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that =
fortnight
her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a wo=
rld
where she could not follow.
"Mother, do you have
`plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully.
"Yes, my dear, I have a
great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I
suspect. I will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may
set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious s=
ubject.
You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothers' lips a=
re
the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will c=
ome
in time, perhaps, so listen to my `plans' and help me carry them out, if th=
ey
are good."
Jo went and sat on one arm of
the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very
solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wis=
tfully,
Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way...
"I want my daughters to=
be
beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be admired, loved, and respected. To =
have
a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant
lives, with as little care and
sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good
man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I since=
rely
hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of=
it,
Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when
the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the j=
oy.
My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in t=
he
world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses,
which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious
thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it =
is
the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives,=
if
you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.&qu=
ot;
"Poor girls don't stand=
any
chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward," sighed Meg.
"Then we'll be old
maids," said Jo stoutly. "right, Jo. Better be happy old maids th=
an
unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," s=
aid
Mrs. March decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a
sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor gir=
ls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these
things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of y=
our
own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing=
remember,
my girls. Mother is always ready to be your confidante, Father to be your
friend, and both of hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or
single, will be the pride and comfort of out lives."
"We will, Marmee, we
will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.=
As spring came on, a new set=
of
amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons
for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of t=
he
little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, "I'd know w=
hich
each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so she
might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's had
roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo's bed was
never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments. This year it
was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful land
aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth =
had
old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, la=
rkspur,
pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip f=
or
the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very
pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their color=
ed
horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicat=
e ferns,
and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there=
.
Gardening, walks, rows on th=
e river,
and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house
diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original. One of these was=
the
`P.C', for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to h=
ave
one, and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the
Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, =
and
met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremo=
nies
were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which
was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big `P.C.' in different colors on
each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all
contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the edito=
r. At
seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the e=
ldest,
was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth,
because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always tryin=
g to
do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read t=
he
paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny adve=
rtisements,
and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults=
and
short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles
without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at=
Mr.
Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself
properly, began to read:
"THE PICKWICK
PORTFOLIO"
MAY 20, 18---
POET'S CORNER
ANNIVERSARY ODE
Again we meet to celebrate With bad=
ge and
solemn rite, Our fifty-second
anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight.
We all are here in perfect
health, None gone from our small band: Again we see each well-known face, A=
nd
press each friendly hand.
Our Pickwick, always at his
post, With reverence we greet, As,
spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet.
Although he suffers from a c=
old,
We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of cr=
oak
or squeak.
Old six-foot Snodgrass looms=
on
high, With elephantine grace, And
beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face.
Poetic fire lights up his ey=
e, He
struggles 'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose, a
blot.
Next our peaceful Tupman com=
es, So
rosy, plump, and sweet, Who c=
hokes
with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat.
Prim little Winkle too is he=
re, With
every hair in place, A model =
of
propriety, Though he hates to wash his face.
The year is gone, we still u=
nite.
To joke and laugh and read, A=
nd
tread the path of literature. That doth to glory lead.
Long may our paper prosper w=
ell,
Our club unbroken be, And com=
ing
years their blessings pour On the useful, gay `P. C.'. A. SNODGRASS
THE MASKED MARRIAGE (A Tale =
Of
Venice)
Gondola after gondola swept =
up
to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant throng
that filled the stately halls of Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and
pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices=
and
rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went=
on.
"Has your Highness seen the Lady viola tonight?" asked a gallant =
troubadour
of the fairy queen whofloated down the hall upon his arm. "Yes, is she=
not
lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she wed=
s Count
Antonio, whom she passionately hates."
"By my faith, I envy hi=
m.
Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When tha=
t is
off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, th=
ough
her stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour.
"Tis whispered that she
loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the =
old
Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance. The revel was at its
height when a priest appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,=
hung with purple velvet, he motion=
ed
them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a sound, but=
he
dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the moonlight,
broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:
"My lords and ladies,
pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage o=
f my
daughter. Father, we wait your services." All eyes turned toward the
bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither
bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hea=
rts,
but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the ea=
ger
spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation.
"Gladly would I give it=
if
I could, but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yiel=
ded
to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my
blessing."
But neither bent the knee, f=
or
the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the m=
ask
fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and
leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl was the
lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
"My lord, you scornfully
bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fo=
rtune
as the Count antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot re=
fuse
the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundl=
ess wealth
in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.
The count stood like one cha=
nged
to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay
smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that yo=
ur
wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bri=
de
as I have by this masked marriage." S. PICKWICK
Why is the P. C. like the Tower of =
Babel?
It is full of unruly members.
THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH
Once upon a time a farmer
planted a little seed. in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and bec=
ame a
vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he pi=
cked
one and took it to market. A gorcerman bought and put it in his shop. That =
same
morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and
snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up,
and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it salt and butter, for dinner.
And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar,
nutmeg, and some crackers, pu=
t it
in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was
eaten by a family named March. T. TUPMAN
Mr. Pickwick, Sir:- I address
you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who mak=
es
trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this
fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fab=
le
because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and =
no
brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some wo=
rk
which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is
nearly school time Yours respectably,
N. WINKLE
[The above is a manly and
handsome aknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied
punctuation, it would be well.]
A SAD ACCIDENT
On Friday last, we were star=
tled
by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushi=
ng
in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved. President prostrate upon
the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purpos=
es.
A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plun=
ged
his head and shoulders into a tub of water,upset a keg of soft soap upon his
manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this perilou=
s situation,
it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises, and we
are happy to add,is now doing well. ED.
THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT
It is our painful duty to re=
cord
the sudden and,mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowb=
all
Pat Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm =
and
admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues=
endeared
her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole community.
When last seen, she was sitt=
ing
at the gate, watching the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villai=
n, tempted
by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has
been discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her bask=
et,
set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.
A sympathizing friend sends =
the
following gem:
A LAMENT (FOR S. B. PAT PAW)
We mourn the loss of our lit=
tle
pet, And sigh o'er her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire she'll sit, Nor play by the old green gat=
e.
The little grave where her
infant sleeps Is 'neath the chestnut tree. But o'er her grave we may not we=
ep, We
know not where it may be.
Her empty bed, her idle ball=
, Will
never see her more;No gentle tap, no loving purr. Is heard at the parlor do=
or.
Another cat comes after her
mice, A cat with a dirty face, But
she does not hunt as our darling did, Nor play with her airy grace.
Her stealthy paws tread the =
very
hall. Where Snowball used to play, But she only spits at the dogs our pet. =
So
gallantly drove away.
She is useful and mild, and =
does
her best, But she is not fair to see,
And we cannot give her your place dear, Nor worship her as we worship
thee. A.S.
ADVERTISEMENTS
Miss Oranthy Bluggage, the
accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her famous lecture on
"WOMAN AND HER POSITION"at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, =
after
the usual performances.
A weekly meeting will be hel=
d at
Kitchen place, to teach young ladies how to cook.Hannah Brown will preside,=
and
all are invited to attend.
The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will mee=
t on
Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All member=
s to
appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.
Mrs. Beth Bouncer will open =
her
newassortment of Doll's Millinery next week. The latest Paris fashions have
arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited.
A new play will appear at the
Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will surpass anythin=
g ever
seen on the American stage.The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger, is =
the
name of this thrilling drama.!!!
HINTS
If S.P. didn't use so much s=
oap
on his hands, he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A.S.is requested not=
to
whistle in the street. T.Tplease don't forget Amy's napkin. N.W. must not f=
ret
because his dress has not nine tucks.
WEEKLY REPORT
Meg--Good. Jo--Bad. Beth--Ve=
ry
Good. Amy--Middling.
As the President finished reading t=
he
paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one
written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed,=
and
then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition.
"Mr. President and gent=
lemen,"
he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, "I wish to propo=
se
the admission of a new member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be =
deeply
grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the
literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Th=
eodore
Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him."
Jo's sudden change of tone m=
ade
the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as
Snodgrass took his seat.
"We'll put it to a
vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion please to
manifest it by saying, `Aye'."
"Contrary-minded say,
`No'."
Meg and Amy were contrary-mi=
nded,
and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance, "We don't wish any boy=
s,
they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be
private and proper."
"I'm afraid he'll laugh=
at
our paper, and make fun of us afterward," observed Pickwick, pulling t=
he
little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful.
Up rose Snodgrass, very much=
in
earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie won't do anyt=
hing
of the sort. He likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions =
and keep
us from being sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and =
he
does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place he=
re,
and make him welcome if he comes."
This artful allusion to bene=
fits
conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his
mind.
"Yes, we ought to do it,
even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he
likes."
This spirited burst from Beth
electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly.
"Now then, vote again. Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say,
`Aye!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly.
"Aye! Aye! Aye!"
replied three voices at once.
"Good! Bless you! Now, =
as
there's nothing like `taking time by the fetlock', as Winkle characteristic=
ally
observes, allow me to present the new member." And, to the dismay of t=
he
rest of the club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Lauri=
e sitting
on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.
"You rogue! You traitor!
Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls, as Snodgrass led her friend=
triumphantly
forth, and producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
"The coolness of you two
rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick, trying to get up an awful fro=
wn and
only succeeding in producing an amiable smile. But the new member was equal=
to
the occasion, and rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in =
the
most engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon, gentlem=
en--allow
me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the
club."
"Good! Good!" cried
Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan on which she leaned.
"My faithful friend and
noble patron," continued Laurie with a wave of the hand, "who has=
so
flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for the base stratagem of
tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing."
"Come now, don't lay it=
all
on yourself. You know I proposed the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who
was enjoying the joke amazingly.
"Never mind what she sa=
ys.
I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the new member, with a Welleres=
que nod
to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor, I never will do so again, and
henceforth devote myself to the interest of this immortal club."
"Hear! Hear!" cried
Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a cymbal.
"Go on, go on!" ad=
ded
Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed benignly.
"I merely wish to say, =
that
as a slight token of my gratitude for the honor done me, and as a means of
promoting friendly relations between adjoining nations, I have set up a post
office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious
building with padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails, al=
so
the females, if I may be allowed the expression. It's the old martin house,=
but
I've stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts =
of
things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and bundles
can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly
nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with many thanks for y=
our
favor, take my seat."
Great applause as Mr. Weller
deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed a=
nd
waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A long
discussion followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her=
best.
So it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour,
when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member. No one ever
regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, a=
nd
jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add `spirit' to the
meetings, and `a tone' to the paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers=
and
his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or
dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milto=
n, or Shakespeare, and remodeled her =
own
works with good effect, she thought.
The P. O. was a capital litt=
le
institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things pa=
ssed
through it as through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry a=
nd pickles,
garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations,
scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself=
by
sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams, and his
gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love letter=
to
Jo care. How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many
love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come.
"The first of June! The
Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I'm free. Three months'
vacation--how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm d=
ay
to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth
took off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the
whole party.
"Aunt March went today,=
for
which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was mortally afraid she'd ask =
me
to go with her. If she had, I should have felt as if I ought to do it, but
Plumfield is about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excu=
sed.
We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she
spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly
helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me. I
quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, for as =
it
drove of, she popped out her head, saying, `Josyphine, won't you--?' I didn=
't
hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did actually run, and whisked
round the corner whee I felt safe."
"Poor old Jo! She came =
in
looking as if bears were after her," said Beth, as she cuddled her
sister's feet with a motherly air.
"Aunt March is a regular
samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,&=
nbsp;
tasting her mixture critically.
"She means vampire, not
seaweed, but it doesn't matter. It's too warm to be particular about one's
parts of speech," murmured Jo.
"What shall you do all =
your
vacation?" asked Amy, changing the subject with tact.
"I shall lie abed late,=
and
do nothing," replied Meg, from the depths of the rocking chair. "=
I've
been routed up early all winter and had to spend my days working for other
people, so now I'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content."
"No," said Jo,
"that dozy way wouldn't suit me. I've laid in a heap of books, and I'm
going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the old apple tree,
when I'm not having l..."
"Don't say `larks!'&quo=
t;
implored Amy, as a return snub for the samphire' correction.
"I'll say `nightingales'
then, with Laurie. That's proper and appropriate, since he's a warbler.&quo=
t;
"Don't let us do any
lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time and rest, as the girls me=
an
to," proposed Amy.
"Well, I will, if Mother
doesn't mind. I want to learn some new songs, and my children need fitting =
up
for the summer. They are dreadfully out of order and really suffering for
clothes."
"May we, Mother?"
asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in what they called `Marme=
e's
corner'. "You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like =
it.
I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as bad=
as
all work and no play."
"Oh, dear, no! It will =
be
delicious, I'm sure," said Meg complacently.
"I now propose a toast,=
as
my `friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp', says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!&qu=
ot; cried
Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went round.
They all drank it merrily, a=
nd
began the experiment by lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg=
did
not appear till ten o'clock. Her solitary breakfast did not taste nice, and=
the
room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not
dusted, and Amy's books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant =
but
`Marmee's corner', which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to `rest and r=
ead',
which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would get wi=
th
her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and the afternoon
reading and crying over The Wide, =
span>Wide
World, up in the apple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the =
big
closet where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she le=
ft
her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she had=
no
dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smooth=
ed
her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone would=
see
and inquire who the young artist was. As no one appeared but an inquisitive
daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with interest, she went to walk, got
caught in a shower, and came home dripping.
At teatime they compared not=
es,
and all agreed that it had been a delightful, though unusually long day. Me=
g,
who went shopping in the afternoon and got a `sweet blue muslin, had
discovered, after she had cut=
the
breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her slightly cross. =
Jo
had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by read=
ing
too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficult=
y of
learning three or four songs at once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage d=
one
her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next day and now like Flora
McFlimsey, she had `nothing to wear'. But these were mere trifles, and they
assured their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, sa=
id
nothing, and with Hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home plea=
sant
and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what a pecu=
liar
and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the `resting and reveling'
process. The days kept getting longer and longer, the weather was unusually
variable and so were tempers, and unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and
Satan found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of
luxury, Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily
that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to furbi=
sh
them up a`la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was sick of boo=
ks,
got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so
reduced in spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with Aunt March.
Beth got on pretty well, for =
she
was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell =
back
into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected her, and =
more
than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so that on one occasi=
on
she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her she was a fright'. Amy far=
ed
worst of all, for her resourc=
es
were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found =
that
accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn't like doll=
s,
fairy tales were childish, an=
d one
couldn't draw all the time. Tea parties didn't amount to much neither did
picnics unless very well conducted. "If one could have a fine house, f=
ull
of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay=
at
home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try the
patience of a Boaz," complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devo=
ted
to pleasure, fretting, and en=
nui.
No one would own that they w=
ere
tired of the experiment, but by Friday night each acknowledged to herself t=
hat
she was glad the week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more
deeply, Mrs. March, who had a=
good
deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner, so
she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the pl=
ay
system.
When they got up on Saturday
morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room,=
and
no mother anywhere to be seen.
"Mercy on us! What has
happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in dismay.
Meg ran upstairs and soon ca=
me
back again, looking relieved but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.
"Mother isn't sick, only
very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day a=
nd
let us do the best we can. It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn=
't
act a bit like herself. But she says it has been a hard week for her, so we
mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves."
"That's easy enough, an=
d I
like the idea, I'm aching for something to do, that is, some new amusement,=
you
know," added Jo quickly.
In fact it was an immense re=
lief
to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon
realized the truth of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke.&qu=
ot;
There was plenty of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the tabl=
e,
Meg and Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked ab=
out
hard work.
"I shall take some up to
Mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of
herself," said Meg, who presided and felt quite matronly behind the
teapot.
So a tray was fitted out bef=
ore
anyone began, and taken up with the cook's compliments. The boiled tea was =
very
bitter, the omelet scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but =
Mrs.
March received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo=
was
gone.
"Poor little souls, they
will have a hard time, I'm afraid, <=
/span>but
they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the =
more
palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of the =
bad
breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly little
deception for which they were grateful.
Many were the complaints bel=
ow,
and great the chagrin of the head cook at her failures. "Never mind, I=
'll
get the dinner and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see c=
ompany,
and give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg, about culinary affairs.
This obliging offer was glad=
ly
accepted, and Margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in orde=
r by
whisking the litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trou=
ble of
dusting. Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to =
make
up the quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to
dinner.
"You'd better see what =
you
have got before you think of having company," said Meg, when informed =
of
the hospitable but rash act.
"Oh, there's corned beef
and plenty of poatoes, and I shall get some asparagus and a lobster, `for a
relish', as Hannah says. We'll have lettuce and make a salad. I don't know =
how,
but the book tells. I'll have blancmange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you want to be
elegant."
"Don't try too many mes=
ses,
Jo, for you can't make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to e=
at.
I wash my hands of the dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your
own responsibility, you may just take care of him."
"I don't want you to do=
anything
but be civil to him and help to the pudding. You'll give me your advice if I
get in a muddle, won't you?&q=
uot;
asked Jo, rather hurt.
"Yes, but I don't know
much, except about bread and a few trifles. You had better ask Mother's lea=
ve
before you order anything," returned Meg prudently.
"Of course I shall. I'm=
not
a fool." And Jo went off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powe=
rs.
"Get what you like, and
don't disturb me. I'm going out to dinner and can't worry about things at
home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to her. "I never enjoyed
housekeeping, and I'm going to take a vacation today, and read, write, go
visiting, and amuse myself."
The unusual spectacle of her
busy mother rocking comfortably and reading early in the morning made Jo fe=
el
as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake=
, or
a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.
"Everything is out of
sorts, somehow," she said to herself,=
going downstairs. "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that=
something
is wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."
Feeling very much out of sor=
ts
herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the cana=
ry,
who lay dead in the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if=
imploring
the food for want of which he had died.
"It's all my fault, I
forgot him, there isn't a seed or a drop left. Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could =
I be
so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands and
trying to restore him.
Jo peeped into his half-open
eye, felt his little heart, and finding him stiff and cold, shook her head,=
and
offered her domino box for a coffin.
"Put him in the oven, a=
nd
maybe his will get warm and revive," said Amy hopefully.
"He's been starved, and=
he
shan't be baked now he's dead. I'll make him a shroud, and he shall be buri=
ed
in the garden, and I'll never have another bird, never, my Pip! For I am too
bad to own one," murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet fold=
ed
in her hands. "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go.
Now, don't cry, Bethy. It's a=
pity,
but nothing goes right this week, =
span>and
Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my
box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice little funeral," sa=
id
Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.
Leaving the others to console
Beth, she departed to the kitchen, <=
/span>which
was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron, she =
fell
to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when she discovered =
that
the fire was out.
"Here's a sweet
prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open, and poking
vigorously among the cinders.
Having rekindled the fire, s=
he
thought she would go to market while the water heated. The walk revived her
spirits, and flattering herself that she had made good bargins, she trudged
home again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and=
two
boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arri=
ved
and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had
worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and forgotten=
it.
Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open=
and
a floury, crocky, flushed, and
disheveled figure appeared, demanding tartly...
"I say, isn't bread `ri=
z'
enough when it runs over the pans?"
Sallie began to laugh, but M=
eg
nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused the
apparition to vanish and put the sour bread into the oven without further
delay. Mrs. March went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters
went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet=
, while the dear departed lay in sta=
te in
the domino box. A strange sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the =
gray
bonnet vanished round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minute=
s later
Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner. Now this lady was a t=
hin,
yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw everything=
and
gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had been taught to be ki=
nd
to her, simply because she was old and poor and had few friends. So Meg gave
her the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions, critsized everything, and told sto=
ries
of the people whom she knew.
Language cannot describe the
anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning, and =
the
dinner she served up became a standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice,
she did her best alone, and
discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to ma=
ke a
cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads
cooked off and the stalks harder than ever. The bread burned black, for the
salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to ear. The
lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked till it was
unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves.
The potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were=
not
done at the last. The blancmange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as rip=
e as
they looked, having been skilfully `deaconed'.
"Well, they can eat beef
and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only it's mortifying to have to s=
pend
your whole morning for nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half=
an
hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the
feast spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss C=
rocker,
whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.
Poor Jo would gladly have go=
ne
under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left, while Amy
giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie ta=
lked
and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene.
Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a
pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and s=
he
drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone look=
ed
graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Croc=
ker
tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who refuse=
d,
thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picki=
ng over,
glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slig=
ht
pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was
fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin=
, and
left the table precipitately.
"Oh, what is it?"
exclaimed Jo, trembling.
"Salt instead of sugar,=
and
the cream is sour," replied Meg with a tragic gesture.
Jo uttered a groan and fell =
back
in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the
berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected=
to
put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of
crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his
heroic efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she
laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even
`Croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended g=
aily,
with bread and butter, olives and fun.
"I haven't strength of =
mind
enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," sa=
id
Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the
new story at another friend's dinner table.
They did sober themselves for
Beth's sake. Laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was
laid in, with many tears by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with m=
oss,
while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his
epitaph, composed by Jo while=
she
struggled with the dinner.
Here lies Pip March, Who died the 7th of June; Loved and
lamented sore, And not forgot=
ten
soon.
At the conclusion of the
ceremonies, Beth retired to her room,
overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose,=
for the beds were not made, and she
found her grief much assuaged by beating up the pillows and putting things =
in
order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half t=
he
afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea =
and toast
for supper.
Laurie took Amy to drive, wh=
ich
was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect u=
pon
her temper. Mrs. March came home to find the three older girls hard at work=
in
the middle of the afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of=
the
success of one part of the experiment.
Before the housewives could
rest, several people called, and there was a scramble to get ready to see t=
hem.
Then tea must be got, errands=
done,
and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last minute. As
twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on the porch where =
the
June roses were budding beautifully,
and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.=
"What a dreadful day th=
is
has been!" began Jo, usually the first to speak.
"It has seemed shorter =
than
usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg.
"Not a bit like home,&q=
uot;
added Amy.
"It can't seem so witho=
ut
Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,&=
nbsp;
glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.
"Here's Mother, dear, a=
nd
you shall have another bird tomorrow,
if you want it."
As she spoke, Mrs. March came
and took her place among them, looking
as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
"Are you satisfied with
your experiment, girls, or do you want another week of it?" she asked,=
as
Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned toward her with brightening face=
s,
as flowers turn toward the sun.
"I don't!" cried Jo
decidedly.
"Nor I," echoed the
others.
"You think then, that i=
t is
better to have a few duties and live a little for others, do you?"
"Lounging and larking
doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm tired of it and
mean to go to work at something right off."
"Suppose you learn plain
cooking. That's a useful accomplishment, which no woman should be
without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the recollection of J=
o's
dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and heard her account of it.
"Mother, did you go away
and let everything be, just to see how we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had
had suspicions all day.
"Yes, I wanted you to s=
ee
how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully. While Ha=
nnah
and I did your work, you got =
on
pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or amiable. So I thou=
ght,
as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when everyone thinks only=
of
herself. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have
daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbea=
r, that home may be comfortable and l=
ovely
to us all?"
"We do, Mother we do!&q=
uot;
cried the girls.
"Then let me advise you=
to
take up your little burdens again, <=
/span>for
though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we l=
earn
to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone. It keep=
s us
from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sen=
se
of power and independence better than money or fashion."
"We'll work like bees, =
and
love it too, see if we don't," said Jo. "I'll learn plain cooking=
for
my holiday task, and the dinner party I have shall be a success."
"I'll make the set of
shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, =
though
I'm not fond of sewing. That will be better than fussing over my own things,
which are plenty nice enough as they are." said Meg.
"I'll do my lessons eve=
ry
day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thin=
g,
and ought to be studying, not
playing," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example by
heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend t=
o my
parts of speech."
"Very good! Then I am q=
uite
satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat i=
t,
only don't go to the other extreme and delve like slaves. Have regular hours
for work and play, make each =
day
both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by
employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, an=
d life
become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty."
"We'll remember,
Mother!" And they did.
Beth was postmistress, for,
being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the
daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July=
day
she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters a=
nd
parcels like the penny post.
"Here's your posy, Moth=
er!
Laurie never forgets that," she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the
vase that stood in `Marmee's corner', and was kept supplied by the affectio=
nate
boy.
"Miss Meg March, one le=
tter
and a glove," continued Beth, <=
/span>delivering
the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.
"Why, I left a pair over
there, and here is only one," said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glo=
ve.
"Didn't you drop the other in the garden?"
"No, I'm sure I didn't,=
for
there was only one in the office."
"I hate to have odd glo=
ves!
Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the
German song I wanted. I think Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's wr=
iting."
Mrs. March glanced at Meg, w=
ho
was looking very pretty in her gingham morning gown, with the little curls
blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her litt=
le
worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her m=
other's
mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were bu=
sied
with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that
Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.
"Two letters for Doctor=
Jo,
a book, and a funny old hat, =
which
covered the whole post office and stuck outside," said Beth, laughing =
as
she went into the study where Jo sat writing.
"What a sly fellow Laur=
ie
is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face ev=
ery
hot day. He said, `Why mind t=
he
fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if I had one, =
and
he has sent me this to try me. I'll wear it for fun, and show him I don't c=
are
for the fashion." And hanging the antique broadbrim on a bust of Plato=
, Jo
read her letters.
One from her mother made her
cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for
it said to her...
My Dear:
I write a little word to tell
you with how much satisfaction I watch your efforts to control your temper.=
You
say nothing about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> that no one sees them but the Frie=
nd
whose help you daily ask, if =
I may
trust the well-worn cover of your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily b=
elieve
in the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on,
dear, patiently and bravely, =
and
always believe that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your
loving...
Mother
"That does me good! That's wor=
th
millions of money and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on
trying, and not get tired, si=
nce I
have you to help me."
Laying her head on her arms,=
Jo
wet her little romance with a few happy tears. for she had thought that no =
one
saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly p=
recious,
doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the person whose commendati=
on
she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon,
she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she =
be
taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for eith=
er
good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote...
Dear Jo, What ho!
Some english girls and boys =
are
coming to see me tomorrow and I want to have a jolly time. If it's fine, I'm
going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch an=
d croquet--have
a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice
people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady, and Ka=
te
Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to come, can't let
Beth off at any price, and no=
body
shall worry her. Don't bother about rations, I'll see to that and everything
else, only do come, there's a good fellow!
In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.
"Here's richness!"
cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.
"Of course we can go,
Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see to the
lunch, and the children be useful in some way."
"I hope the Vaughns are=
not
fine grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg.=
"Only that there are fo=
ur
of them. Kate is older than you, Fred
and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or t=
en.
Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the way he pri=
mmed
up his mouth in speaking of her, that
he didn't admire Kate much."
"I'm so glad my French
print is clean, it's just the thing and so becoming!" observed Meg
complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?"
"Scarlet and gray boati=
ng
suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp about, so I don't want any
starch to think of. You'll come, Betty?"
"If you won't let any b=
oys
talk to me."
"Not a boy!"
"I like to please Lauri=
e,
and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, =
span>he
is so kind. But I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work h=
ard
and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll go."
"That's my good girl. Y=
ou
do try to fight off your shyness, =
span>and
I love you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know, and a cheery word
kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother," And Jo gave the thin cheek a
grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the ro=
sy
roundness of her youth.
"I had a box of chocola= te drops, and the picture I wanted to copy," said Amy, showing her mail.<= o:p>
"And I got a note from =
Mr.
Laurence, asking me to come over and play to him tonight, before the lamps =
are
lighted, and I shall go," added Beth, whose friendship with the old
gentleman prospered finely. "Now let's fly round, and do double duty
today, so that we can play tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, prepari=
ng
to replace her pen with a broom.
When the sun peeped into the
girls' room early next morning to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical
sight. Each had made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and
proper. Meg had an extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo h=
ad
copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joann=
a to
bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the
climax by putting a colthespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature.=
It
was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing boards, =
therefore
quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it was now being put. This
funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radia=
nce
that Jo woke up and roused her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament.=
Sunshine and laughter were g=
ood
omens for a pleasure party, a=
nd
soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept
reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters' toilets by
frequent telegrams from the window.
"There goes the man with
the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch in a hamper and a great bask=
et.
Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky and the weathercock. I wish he wo=
uld
go too. There's Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here=
's a
carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame=
, poor
thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie didn't tell us that. Be quick, girls! It's
getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Meg, isn't that the m=
an who
bowed to you one day when we were shopping?"
"So it is. How queer th=
at
he should come. I thought he was at the mountains. There is Sallie. I'm glad
she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?" cried Meg in a flutter.
"A regular daisy. Hold =
up
your dress and put your hat on straight, it looks sentimental tipped that w=
ay
and will fly off at the first puff. Now then, come on!"
"Oh, Jo, you are not go=
ing
to wear that awful hat? It's too absurd! You shall not make a guy of
yourself," remonstrated Meg, =
span>as
Jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Lau=
rie
had sent for a joke.
"I just will, though, f=
or
it's capital, so shady, light, and big. It will make fun, and I don't mind
being a guy if I'm comfortable." With that Jo marched straight away and
the rest followed, a bright l=
ittle
band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy faces u=
nder
the jaunty hatbrims.
Laurie ran to meet and prese=
nt
them to his friends in the most cordial manner. The lawn was the reception
room, and for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was gra=
teful
to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which
American girls would do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr.
Ned's assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laur=
ie
`primmed up his mouth' when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a sta=
ndoff-don't-touch-me
air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other
girls. Beth took an observation of the new boys and decided that the lame o=
ne
was not `dreadful', but gentl=
e and
feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found Grace a
well-mannered, merry, little person,
and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they sudd=
enly
became very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet
utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and t=
he
two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the s=
hore.
Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaug=
hn,
the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry =
like
a disturbed water bug. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was=
of general
utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing a laugh, it created
quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she rowed, and would make=
an
excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Miss
Kate decided that she was `odd', but rather clever, and smiled upon her fro=
m afar.
Meg, in the other boat, was
delightfully situated, face to face with the rowers, who both admired the
prospect and feathered their oars with uncommon `skill and dexterity'. Mr.
Brooke was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasa=
nt voice.
Meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of us=
eful
knowledge. He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, a=
nd
she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in colle=
ge,
of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their bounden duty to=
assume.
He was not very wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent pe=
rson
to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white piq=
ue
dress clean and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in const=
ant
terror by his pranks.
It was not far to Longmeadow,
but the tent was pitched and the wickets down by the time they arrived. A
pleasant green field, with th=
ree
wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for croquet.
"Welcome to Camp
Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed with exclamations of
delight.
"Brooke is commander in
chief, I am commissary general, the other fellows are staff officers, and y=
ou,
ladies, are company. The tent is for your especial benefit and that oak is =
your
drawing room, this is the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> let's have a game before it gets h=
ot,
and then we'll see about dinner."
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace =
sat down
to watch the game played by the other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and
Fred. Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned. The English played well, but the
Americans played better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly=
as
if the spirit of `76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and =
once
narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had missed =
the
stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind her an=
d his
turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopp=
ed
an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near, and running up to examine,=
he
gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right si=
de.
"I'm through! Now, Miss=
Jo,
I'll settle you, and get in first," cried the young gentleman, swinging
his mallet for another blow.
"You pushed it. I saw y=
ou.
It's my turn now," said Jo sharply.
"Upon my word, I didn't
move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, <=
/span>but
that is allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake.&q=
uot;
"We don't cheat in Amer=
ica,
but you can, if you choose," said Jo angrily.
"Yankees are a deal the
most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!" returned Fred, croqueting=
her
ball far away.
Jo opened her lips to say
something rude, but checked herself in time, colored up to her forehead and
stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with all her might, while Fred hit =
the
stake and declared himself out with much exultation. She went off to get he=
r ball,
and was a long time finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking
cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to
regain the place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had
nearly won, for Kate's ball was the last but one and lay near the stake.
"By George, it's all up
with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so you are finished," cri=
ed
Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish.
"Yankees have a trick of
being generous to their enemies," said Jo, with a look that made the l=
ad
redden, "especially when they beat them," she added, as, leaving
Kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a clever stroke.
Laurie threw up his hat, then
remembered that it wouldn't do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and
stopped in the middle of the cheer to whisper to his friend, "Good for
you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him. We can't tell him so, but he won't do it
again, take my word for it.&q=
uot;
Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."<= o:p>
"Don't praise me, Meg, =
for
I could box his ears this minute. I should certainly have boiled over if I
hadn't stayed among the nettles till I got my rage under control enough to =
hold
my tongue.. It's simmering now, so I hope he'll keep out of my way,"
returned Jo, biting her lips as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat=
.
"Time for lunch," =
said
Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary general, will you make t=
he
fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? =
Who
can make good coffee?"
"Jo can," said Meg,
glad to recommend her sister. So Jo,
feeling that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went =
to
preside over the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the
boys made a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and
Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to serve=
as
plates.
The commander in chief and h=
is
aides soon spread the tablecloth with an inviting array of eatables and
drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo announced that the cof=
fee was
ready, and everyone settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom
dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it
was, for everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter
startled a venerable horse who fed near by. There was a pleasing inequality=
in
the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and plates, acorns dropped in
the milk, little black ants partook of the refreshments without being invit=
ed,
and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree to see what was going on. T=
hree
white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barke=
d at
them from the other side of the river with all his might and main.
"There's salt here,&quo=
t;
said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.
"Thank you, I prefer
spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary little ones who had gone =
to a
creamy death. "How dare you remind me of that horrid dinner party, when
your's is so nice in every way?' added Jo, as they both laughed and ate out=
of
one plate, the china having run short.
"I had an uncommonly go=
od
time that day, and haven't got over it yet. This is no credit to me, you kn=
ow,
I don't do anything. It's you and Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I'=
m no
end obliged to you. what shall we do when we can't eat anymore?" asked
Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.
"Have games till it's
cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss Kate knows something new and
nice. Go and ask her. She's company, and you ought to stay with her more.&q=
uot;
"Aren't you company too=
? I
thought she'd suit Brooke, but he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stare=
s at
them through that ridiculous glass of hers'. I'm going, so you needn't try =
to
preach propriety, for you can't do it, Jo."
Miss Kate did know several n=
ew
games, and as the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, th=
ey
all adjourned to the drawing room to play Rig-marole.
"One person begins a st=
ory,
any nonsense you like, and tells as long as he pleases, only taking care to
stop short at some exciting point, when the next takes it up and does the s=
ame.
It's very funny when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comi=
cal
stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said Kate, with a
commanding air, which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much res=
pect
as any other gentleman.
Lying on the grass at the fe=
et
of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke obediently began the story, with the
handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river.
"Once on a time, a knig=
ht
went out into the world to seek his fortune, for he had nothing but his swo=
rd
and his shield. He traveled a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, an=
d had
a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of a good old king, who had
offered a reward to anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken col=
t,
of which he was very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but
surely, for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new
master, though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his lesson=
s to
this pet of the king's, the knight rode him through the city, and as he rod=
e,
he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his
dreams, but never found. One day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, =
he
saw at the window of a ruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted,
inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told that several captive pr=
incesses
were kept there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their
liberty. The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he was po=
or
and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and longing to s=
ee
it out in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into the castle and ask =
how
he could help them. He went and knocked. The great door flew open, and he
beheld . .."
"A ravishingly lovely l=
ady,
who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, `At last! At last!'" continued K=
ate,
who had read French novels, and admired the style. "`Tis she!' cried C=
ount
Gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy. `Oh, rise!' she said,
extending a hand of marble fairness. `Never! Till you tell me how I may res=
cue
you, ' swore the knight, still kneeling. `Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to
remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.' `Where is the villain?' `In the m=
auve
salon. Go, brave heart, and s=
ave me
from despair.' `I obey, and return victorious or dead!' With these thrilling
words he rushed away, and fli=
nging
open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received..." "A
stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a black go=
wn
fired at him," said Ned. "Instantly, Sir What's-his-name recovered
himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to join the lady,
victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door locked, tore up the
curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when the ladder broke, and he
went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim like a duck, pad=
dled
round the castle till he came to a little door guarded by two stout fellows,
knocked their heads together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then,=
by
a trifling exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, wen=
t up
a pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as your
fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, MIss March. At the top of these st=
eps he
came plump upon a sight that took his breath away and chilled his
blood..."
"A tall figure, all in
white with a veil over its face and a lamp in its wasted hand," went on
Meg. "It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before him down a corridor as d=
ark
and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side, a dea=
d silence
reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned =
its
face toward him, showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. =
They
reached a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music. He sprang forw=
ard
to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly before =
him
a..."
"Snuffbox," said J=
o,
in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the audience. "`Thankee, ' said =
the
knight politely, as he took a pinch and sneezed seven times so violently th=
at
his head fell off. `Ha! Ha!' laughed the ghost, and having peeped through t=
he
keyhole at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit pick=
ed
up her victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other=
knights
packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all rose and began to..."=
"Dance a hornpipe,"
cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, "and, as they danced, the rubbishy old c=
astle
turned to a man-of-war in full sail. `Up with the jib, reef the tops'l
halliards, helm hard alee, and man the guns!' roared the captain, as a
Portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her
foremast. `Go in and win, my hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous =
fight
began. Of course the British beat, they always do."
"No, they don't!"
cried Jo, aside.
"Having taken the pirate
captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner, whose decks were piled high
with dead and whose lee scuppers ran blood, for the order had been `Cutlass=
es,
and die hard!' `Bosun's mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he doesn=
't
confess his sins double quick, ' said the British captain. The Portuguese h=
eld
his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered=
like
mad. But the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, w=
ith
all sail set, `To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..." "Oh,
gracious! What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his rigmarole=
, in
which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and facts out of o=
ne
of his favorite books. "Well, they went to the bottom, and a nice merm=
aid
welcomed them, but was much g=
rieved
on finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine,
hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was curio=
us.
By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, `I'll give you a box of
pearls if you can take it up, ' for she wanted to restore the poor things to
life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up,
and was much disappointed on opening it to find no pearls. He left it in a
great lonely field, where it was found by a..."
"Little goose girl, who
kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said Amy, when Sallie's invent=
ion
gave out. "The little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old woman =
what
she should do to help them. `Your geese will tell you, they know everything=
.'
said the old woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since t=
he
old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and
screamed..."
"`Cabbages!'"
continued Laurie promptly. "`Just the thing, ' said the girl, and ran =
to
get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on, the knights revived =
at
once, thanked her, and went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the
difference, for there were so many other heads like them in the world that =
no
one thought anything of it. The knight in whom I'm interest went back to fi=
nd
the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free a=
nd
all gone and married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and
mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the
castle to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of h=
is
affections picking flowers in her garden. `Will you give me a rose?' said h=
e.
`You must come and get it. I can't come to you, it isn't proper, ' said she=
, as
sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow hig=
her
and higher. Then he tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker,=
and
he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig after twig till he had made a
little hole through which he peeped, saying imploringly, `Let me in! Let me
in!' But the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her
roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Fra=
nk
will tell you."
"I can't. I'm not playi=
ng,
I never do," said Frank, dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of
which he was to rescue the absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, a=
nd
Grace was asleep.
"So the poor knight is =
to
be left sticking in the hedge, is he?" asked Mr. Brooke, still watching
the river, and playing with the wild rose in his buttonhole.
"I guess the princess g=
ave
him a posy, and opened the gate after a while," said Laurie, smiling to
himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor.
"What a piece of nonsen=
se
we have made! With practice we might do something quite clever. Do you know
Truth?"
"I hope so," said =
Meg
soberly.
"The game, I mean?"=
;
"what is it?" said
Fred.
"Why, you pile up your
hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at t=
he
number has to answer truly any question put by the rest. It's great fun.&qu=
ot;
"Let's try it," sa=
id
Jo, who liked new experiments.
Miss Kate and Mr. Booke, Meg,
and Ned declined, but Fred, S=
allie,
Jo, and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.
"Who are your heroes?&q=
uot;
asked Jo.
"Grandfather and
Napoleon."
"Which lady here do you
think prettiest?" said Sallie.
"Margaret."
"Which do you like
best?" from Fred.
"Jo, of course." &=
quot;What
silly questions you ask!" And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the rest
laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.
"Try again. Truth isn't=
a
bad game," said Fred.
"It's a very good one f=
or
you," retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn came next.
"What is your greatest fault?' asked Fred, by way of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself.<= o:p>
"A quick temper."<= o:p>
"What do you most wish
for?" said Laurie.
"A pair of boot
lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his purpose.
"Not a true answer. You
must say what you really do want most."
"Genius. Don't you wish=
you
could give it to me, Laurie?" And she slyly smiled in his disappointed
face.
"What virtues do you mo=
st
admire in a man?" asked Sallie.
"Courage and honesty.&q=
uot;
"Now my turn," said
Fred, as his hand came last.
"Let's give it to
him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at once...
"Didn't you cheat at
croquet?'
"Well, yes, a little
bit."
"Good! Didn't you take =
your
story out of THE SEA LION?" said Laurie.
"Rather."
"Don't you think the
English nation perfect in every respect?" asked Sallie.
"I should be ashamed of
myself if I didn't."
"He's a true John Bull.
Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance without waiting to draw. I'll har=
rrow
up your feelings first by asking if you don't think you are something of a
flirt," said Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was
declared.
"You impertinent boy! Of
course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie,&nb=
sp;
with an air that proved the contrary.
"What do you hate
most?" asked Fred.
"Spiders and rice
pudding."
"What do you like
best?" asked Jo.
"Dancing and French
gloves."
"Well, I think Truth is=
a
very silly play. Let's have a sensible game of Authors to refresh our
minds," proposed Jo.
Ned, frank, and the little g=
irls
joined in this, and while it went on, the three elders sat apart, talking. =
Miss
Kate took out her sketch again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke =
lay on
the grass with a book, which he did not read.
"How beautifully you do=
it!
I wish I could draw," said Meg,
with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
"Why don't you learn? I
should think you had taste and talent for it," replied Miss Kate
graciously.
"I haven't time."<= o:p>
"Your mamma prefers oth=
er
accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I proved to her that I had talen=
t by
taking a few lessons privately, and then she was quite willing I should go =
on.
Can't you do the same with your governess?"
"I have none."
"I forgot young ladies =
in
America go to school more than with us. Very fine schools they are, too, Pa=
pa
says. You go to a private one, I suppose?"
"I don't go at all. I a=
m a
governess myself."
"Oh. indeed!" said
Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, "Dear me, how dreadful!"=
for
her tone implied it, and something in her face made Meg color, and wish she=
had
not been so frank.
Mr. Brooke looked up and said
quickly, Young ladies in America love independence as much as their ancesto=
rs
did, and are admired and respected for supporting themselves."
"Oh, yes, of course it's
very nice and proper in them to do so. We have many most respectable and wo=
rthy
young women who do the same and are employed by the nobility, because, being
the daughters of gentlemen, they are both well bred and accomplished, you know," said Miss Kate in =
a patronizing
tone that hurt Meg's pride, and made her work seem not only more distastefu=
l,
but degrading.
"Did the German song su=
it,
Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke,&nbs=
p;
breaking an awkward pause.
"Oh, yes! It was very
sweet, and I'm much obliged to whoever translated it for me." And Meg's
downcast face brightened as she spoke.
"Don't you read
German?" asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.
"Not very well. My fath=
er,
who taught me, is away, and I don't get on very fast alone, for I've no one=
to
correct my pronunciation."
"Try a little now. Here=
is
Schiller's Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves to teach." And Mr. Brooke
laid his book on her lap with an inviting smile.
"It's so hard I'm afrai=
d to
try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in the presence of the accomplis=
hed
young lady beside her.
"I'll read a bit to
encourage you." And Miss Kate read one of the most beautiful passages =
in a
perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless manner.
Mr. Brooke made no comment as
she returned the book to Meg, who
said innocently, "I thought it was poetry." "Some of it is. =
Try
this passage."
There was a queer smile about
Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened at poor Mary's lament.
Meg obediently following the
long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point with, read slowly and ti=
midly,
unconsciously making poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her=
musical
voice. Down the page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in the bea=
uty of
the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the
words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would =
have
stopped short, but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for =
her.
"Very well indeed!"
said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looki=
ng
as if he did indeed love to teach.
Miss Kate put up her glass, =
and,
having taken a survey of the little tableau before her, shut her sketch boo=
k,
saying with condescension, "You've a nice accent and in time will be a
clever reader. I advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishme=
nt
to teachers. I must look after Grace, she is romping." And Miss Kate
strolled away, adding to herself with a shrug, "I didn't come to chape=
rone
a governess, though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees =
are.
I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them."
"I forgot that English
people rather turn up their noses at governesses and don't treat them as we
do," said Meg, looking after the retreating figure with an annoyed
expression.
"Tutors also have rathe=
r a
hard time of it there, as I know to my sorrow. There's no place like America
for us workers, Miss Margaret." And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and
cheerful that Meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot.
"I'm glad I live in it
then. I don't like my work, but I get a good deal of satisfaction out of it
after all, so I won't complain. I only wished I liked teaching as you do.&q=
uot;
"I think you would if y=
ou
had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry to lose him next year," =
said
Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf.
"Going to college, I
suppose?" Meg's lips asked the question, but her eyes added, "And what
becomes of you?"
"Yes, it's high time he
went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is off, I shall turn soldier. I am
needed."
"I am glad of that!&quo=
t;
exclaimed Meg. "I should think every young man would want to go, thoug=
h it
is hard for the mothers and sisters who stay at home," she added
sorrowfully. "I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I l=
ive or
die," said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose=
in
the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.
"Laurie and his grandfa=
ther
would care a great deal, and we should all be very sorry to have any harm
happen to you," said Meg heartily.
"Thank you, that sounds
pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful again, but before he cou=
ld
finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old horse, came lumbering up to disp=
lay
his equestrian skill before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet t=
hat
day.
"Don't you love to
ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting after a race round the
field with the others, led by Ned.
"I dote upon it. My sis=
ter,
Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but we don't keep any horses now, exc=
ept
Ellen Tree," added Amy, laughing.
"Tell me about Ellen Tr=
ee.
Is it a donkey?" asked Grace curiously.
"Why, you see, Jo is cr=
azy
about horses and so am I, but we've only got an old sidesaddle and no horse.
Out in our garden is an apple tree that has a nice low branch, so Jo put the
saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree
whenever we like."
"How funny!" laugh=
ed
Grace. "I have a pony at home, and ride nearly every day in the park w=
ith
Fred and Kate. It's very nice, for my friends go too, and the Row is full of
ladies and gentlemen."
"Dear, how charming! I =
hope
I shall go abroad some day, b=
ut I'd
rather go to Rome than the row," said Amy, who had not the remotest id=
ea
what the Row was and wouldn't have asked for the world.
Frank, sitting just behind t=
he
little girls, heard what they were saying, and pushed his crutch away from =
him
with an impatient gesture as he watched the active lads going through all s=
orts
of comical gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards,
looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, "I'm afraid you are tired. Ca=
n I do
anything for you?"
"Talk to me, please. It=
's
dull, sitting by myself," answered Frank, who had evidently been used =
to
being made much of at home.
If he asked her to deliver a
Latin oration, it would not have seemed a more impossible task to bashful B=
eth,
but there was no place to run to, no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy
looked so wistfully at her that she bravely resolved to try.
"What do you like to ta=
lk
about?" she asked, fumbling over the cards and dropping half as she tr=
ied
to tie them up.
"Well, I like to hear a=
bout
cricket and boating and hunting," said Frank, who had not yet learned =
to
suit his amusements to his strength.
My heart! What shall I do? I
don't know anything about them, thought
Beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk,
"I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you know all about it."
"I did once, but I can
never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a confounded five-barred gate, so
there are no more horses and hounds for me," said Frank with a sigh th=
at
made Beth hate herself for her innocent blunder.
"Your deer are much
prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said, turning to the prairies f=
or
help and feeling glad that she had read one of the boys' books in which Jo
delighted.
Buffaloes proved soothing and
satisfactory, and in her eagerness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, a=
nd
was quite unconscious of her sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual
spectacle of Beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom sh=
e had
begged protection.
"Bless her heart! She
pities him, so she is good to him," aid Jo, beaming at her from the
croquet ground.
"I always said she was a
little saint," added Meg, as if there could be no further doubt of it.=
"I haven't heard Frank
laugh so much for ever so long," said Grace to Amy, as they sat discus=
sing
dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn cups.
"My sister Beth is a ve=
ry
fastidious girl, when she likes to be," said Amy, well pleased at Beth=
's
success. She meant `facinating', but as Grace didn't know the exact meaning=
of
either word, fastidious sound=
ed
well and made a good impression.
An impromptu circus, fox and
geese, and an amicable game of croquet finished the afternoon. At sunset the
tent was struck, hampers pack=
ed,
wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river,
singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a
serenade with the pensive refrain...
Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone,
and at the lines...
We each are young, we each h=
ave
a heart, Oh, why should we st=
and
thus coldly apart?
he looked at Meg with such a
lackadiasical expression that she laughed outright and spoiled his song.
"How can you be so crue=
l to
me?" he whispered, under cover of a lively chorus. "You've kept c=
lose
to that starched-up Englishwoman all day, and now you snub me."
"I didn't mean to, but =
you
looked so funny I really couldn't help it," replied Meg, passing over =
the
first part of his reproach, f=
or it
was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and t=
he
talk after it.
Ned was offended and turned =
to
Sallie for consolation, saying to her rather pettishly, "There isn't a=
bit
of flirt in that girl, is the=
re?"
"Not a particle, but sh=
e's
a dear," returned Sallie, defending her friend even while confessing h=
er
shortcomings.
"She's not a stricken d=
eer
anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty, and succeeding as well as very
young gentlemen usually do.
On the lawn where it had
gathered, the little party separated with cordial good nights and good-bys,=
for
the Vaughns were going to Canada. As the four sisters went home through the
garden, Miss Kate looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone i=
n her
voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are ve=
ry
nice when one knows them."
"I quite agree with
you," said Mr. Brooke.
Laurie lay luxuriously swing=
ing
to and fro in his hammock one warm September afternoon, wondering what his
neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his=
moods,
for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live i=
t over
again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, t=
ried
Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practici=
ng
half the afternoon, frightened the maidservants half out of their wits by
mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high w=
ords
with the stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung
himself into his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general=
, till the peace of the lovely day q=
uieted
him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chest=
nut
trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining him=
self
tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices
brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he
saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.
"What in the world are
those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to tak=
e a
good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his=
neighbors.
Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulde=
r,
and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and =
Amy
a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back
gate, and began to climb the =
hill
that lay between the house and river.
"Well, that's cool,&quo=
t;
said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me! They can't=
be
going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it. I'=
ll
take it to them, and see what=
's
going on."
Though possessed of half a d=
ozen
hats, it took him some time to find one, then there was a hunt for the key,
which was at last discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite ou=
t of
sight when leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to =
the
boathouse, he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an
observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of
this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the
drowsy chirp of the crickets.
"Here's a landscape!&qu=
ot;
thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and
good-natured already.
It was a rather pretty little
picture, for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow
flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their
hot cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs as if
these were no strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing
daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in =
her
pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under=
the
hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy was sketching a
group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over=
the
boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away because
uninvited, yet lingering because home seemed very lonely and this quiet par=
ty
in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that=
a
squirrel, busy with it's harvesting, ran dawn a pine close beside him, saw =
him
suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied =
the
wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.
"May I come in, please?=
Or
shall I be a bother?" he asked,
advancing slowly.
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but=
Jo
scowled at her defiantly and said at once, "Of course you may. We shou=
ld
have asked you before, only we
thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."
"I always like your gam=
es, but
if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away."
"I've no objection, if =
you
do something. It's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg gra=
vely
but graciously.
"Much obliged. I'll do
anything if you'll let me stop a bit,
for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew,
"Finish this story whil=
e I
set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book.
"Yes'm." was the m=
eek
answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of
admission into the `Busy Bee Society'.
The story was not a long one,
and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of
merit.
"Please, ma'am, could I
inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?&q=
uot;
"Would you tell him?&qu=
ot;
asked Meg of her sisters.
"He'll laugh," said
Amy warningly.
"Who cares?" said =
Jo.
"I guess he'll like
it," added Beth.
"Of course I shall! I g=
ive
you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid."
"The idea of being afra=
id
of you! Well, you see we used to play Pilgrim's Progress, and we have been
going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer."
"Yes, I know," said
Laurie, nodding wisely.
"Who told you?"
demanded Jo.
"Spirits."
"No, I did. I wanted to
amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did
like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.
"You can't keep a secre=
t.
Never mind, it saves trouble now."
"Go on, please," s=
aid
Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.
"Oh, didn't she tell you
about this new plan of ours? Well, <=
/span>we
have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at =
it
with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we a=
re
ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."
"Yes, I should think
so," and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days. "Mother
likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring our work her=
e and
have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear =
the
old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do
years ago. We call this hill the Delectable Mountain, for we can look far a=
way and
see the country where we hope to live some time."
Jo pointed, and Laurie sat u=
p to
examine, for through an opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, =
blue
river, the meadows on the oth=
er
side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that ros=
e to
meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of =
an autumn
sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy lig=
ht
were silvery white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial =
City.
"How beautiful that
is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any
kind.
"It's often so, and we =
like
to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied A=
my,
wishing she could paint it.
"Jo talks about the cou=
ntry
where we hope to live sometime--the real country, she means, with pigs and
chickens and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country =
up
there was real, and we could =
ever
go to it," said Beth musingly.
"There is a lovelier
country even than that, where we shall go,=
by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered Meg with her swee=
test
voice.
"It seems so long to wa=
it,
so hard to do. I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in=
at
that splendid gate."
"You'll get there, Beth,
sooner or later, no fear of that," said Jo. "I'm the one that will
have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after
all."
"you'll have me for
company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of traveling befo=
re I
come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good w=
ord
for me, won't you, Beth?"=
;
Something in the boy's face
troubled his little friend, but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on=
the
changing clouds, "If peo=
ple
really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in,
for I don't believe there are any locks on that door or any guards at the g=
ate.
I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stre=
tch
out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.
"Wouldn't it be fun if =
all
the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in
them?" said Jo, after a little pause.
"I've made such quantit=
ies
it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat and
throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.
"You'd have to take your
favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.
"If I tell mine, will y=
ou
tell yours?"
"Yes, if the girls will
too."
"We will. Now,
Laurie."
"After I'd seen as much=
of
the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany and have just as much
music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is =
to
rush to hear me. And I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but =
just
enjoy myself and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yo=
urs,
Meg?"
Margaret seemed to find it a
little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to dispe=
rse
imaginary gnats, while she sa=
id
slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious
things--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and
heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with pl=
enty
of servants, so I never need =
work a
bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make
everyone love me dearly."
"Wouldn't you have a ma=
ster
for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly.
"I said `pleasant peopl=
e',
you know," And Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no=
one
saw her face.
"Why don't you say you'd
have a splendid, wise, good husband and some angelic little children? You k=
now
your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no te=
nder
fancies yet, and rather scorn=
ed
romance, except in books.
"You'd have nothing but
horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly.
"Wouldn't I though? I'd
have a stable full of Arabian steeds,
rooms piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> so that my works should be as famo=
us as
Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,
something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don=
't
know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some d=
ay.
I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my
favorite dream."
"Mine is to stay at home
safe with Father and Mother, and help take care of the family," said B=
eth
contentedly.
"Don't you wish for
anything else?" asked Laurie. "Since I had my little piano, I am
perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together, noth=
ing
else."
"I have ever so many
wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine
pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest
desire.
"We're an ambitious set,
aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorg=
eous
in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," =
said
Laurie, chewing grass like a
meditative calf.
"I've got the key to my=
castle
in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen,"
observed Jo mysteriously.
"I've got the key to mi=
ne,
but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie with an
impatient sigh.
"Here's mine!" and=
Amy
waved her pencil.
"I haven't got any,&quo=
t;
said Meg forlornly.
"Yes, you have," s=
aid
Laurie at once.
"Where?"
"In your face."
"Nonsense, that's of no
use." "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth
having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little=
secret
which he fancied he knew.
Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.<= o:p>
"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan.<= o:p>
"Bless me! How old I sh=
all
be, twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg,&nbs=
p;
who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
"You and I will be
twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable
party!" said Jo.
"I hope I shall have do=
ne
something to be proud of by that time, but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I
shall dawdle, Jo."
"You need a motive, Mot=
her
says, and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly."
"Is she? By Jupiter, I
will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden
energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please Grandfather, and I do try, =
but
it's working against the grain, you
see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd
rather be shot. I hate tea and sild and spices, and every sort of rubbish h=
is
old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own
them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he
ought to let me off from the business. But he's set, and I've got to do jus=
t as
he did, unless I break away a=
nd
please myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the =
old
gentleman, I'd do it tomorrow."
Laurie spoke excitedly, and
looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocatio=
n,
for he was growing up very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a y=
oung
man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world=
for
himself.
"I advise you to sail a=
way
in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own
way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a da=
ring
exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called `Teddy's Wrongs'=
.
"That's not right, Jo. =
You
mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You shou=
ld
do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her mo=
st
maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try=
to
please him, I'm sure he won't=
be
hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with=
and
love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his
permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty and you'll get your
reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved."
"What do you know about
him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the
lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself after his unusual
outbreak.
"Only what your grandpa
told us about him, how he took good care of his own mother till she died, a=
nd
wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave h=
er.
And how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never t=
ells
anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be."
"So he is, dear old
fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earn=
est
with her story. "It's like Grandpa to find out all about him without
letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might
like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him,
"Begin to do something =
now
by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply.
"How do you know I do, =
Miss?"
"I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been goo=
d,
he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, he's sober a=
nd
walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better."
"Well, I like that? So =
you
keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him
bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a
telegraph."
"We haven't. Don't be
angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I c=
ared
how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know,"
cried Meg, much alarmed at the
thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
"I don't tell tales,&qu=
ot;
replied Laurie, with his `high and mighty' air, as Jo called a certain expr=
ession
which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermomet=
er,
I must mind and have fair weather for him to report."
"Please don't be offend=
ed.
I didn't meant to preach or tell tales or be silly. I only thought Jo was
encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for by-and-by. You are so
kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother and say just what we think. =
Forgive
me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both
affectionate and timid.
Ashamed of his momentary piq=
ue,
Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one t=
o be
forgiven. I'm cross and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you =
tell
me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I tha=
nk
you all the same."
Bent on showing that he was =
not
offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible, wound cotton for Meg,
recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with=
her
ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the `Busy Bee Society'. In=
the
midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of t=
hose
amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a =
bell
warned them that Hannah had put the tea `to draw', and they would just have
time to get home to supper.
"May I come again?"
asked Laurie.
"Yes, if your are good,=
and
love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg,
smiling.
"i'll try."
"Then you may come, and
I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do. There's a demand for socks just
now," added Jo, waving hers like a big blue worsted banner as they par=
ted
at the gate.
That night, when Beth played=
to
Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie,
standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose
simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat w=
ith
his gray head on his hand, th=
inking
tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the
conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to
make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with t=
he
dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."
Jo was very busy in the garr=
et,
for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. F=
or
two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated=
on
the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before
her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanie=
d by
his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his
whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page =
was
filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen,
exclaiming...
"There, I've done my be=
st!
If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better."
Lying back on the sofa, she =
read
the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting=
in
many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons. Then she tied i=
t up
with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistf=
ul
expression, which plainly showed how ernest her work had been. Jo's desk up
here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. It it she kept her
papers, and a few books, safe=
ly
shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of
making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating
the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and putting both in her pocket, cr=
ept
quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her
ink.
She put on her hat and jacke=
t as
noiselessly as possible, and going to the back entry window, got out upon t=
he
roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a
roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a pass=
ing omnibus,
and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.
If anyone had been watching =
her,
he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, s=
he
went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain bus=
y street.
Having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, loo=
ked
up the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived
into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she
repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentle=
man lounging
in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo g=
ave
herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs,
looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
There was a dentist's sign,
among others, which adorned the entrance, and after staring a moment at the
pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a
fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in t=
he
opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like her to =
come
alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home."=
;
In ten minutes Jo came runni=
ng
downstairs with a very red face and the general appearance of a person who =
had
just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young ge=
ntleman
she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed,
asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?"
"Not very."
"You got through
quickly."
"Yes, thank goodness!&q=
uot;
"Why did you go
alone?"
"Didn't want anyone to
know."
"You're the oddest fell=
ow I
ever saw. How many did you have out?"
Jo looked at her friend as if
she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at
something.
"There are two which I =
want
to have come out, but I must wait a week."
"What are you laughing =
at?
You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified.
"So are you. What were =
you
doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"
"Begging your pardon,
ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a les=
son
in fencing."
"I'm glad of that."=
;
"why?"
"You can teach me, and =
then
when we play HAMLET, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the
fencing scene."
"Laurie burst out with a
hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themsel=
ves.
"I'll teach you whether=
we
play HAMLET or not. It's grand fun and will straighten you up capitally. Bu=
t I
don't believe that was your only reason for saying `I'm glad' in that decid=
ed way,
was it now?"
"No, I was glad that you
were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do
you?"
"Not often."
"I wish you wouldn't.&q=
uot;
"It's no harm, Jo. I ha=
ve
billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so, as I'm
fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the=
other
fellows."
"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry,
for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and mone=
y,
and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be=
a
satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head.
"Can't a fellow take a
little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?&q=
uot;
asked Laurie, looking nettled.
"That depends upon how =
and
where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of=
it.
Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come. And if =
you grow
like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."=
; "Won't
she?" asked Laurie anxiously.
"No, she can't bear
fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than ha=
ve
us associate with them."
"Well, she needn't get =
out
her bandboxes yet. I'm not a fashionable party and don't mean to be, but I =
do
like harmless larks now and then, don't you?"
"Yes, nobody minds them=
, so
lark away, but don't get wild, will
you? Or there will be an end of all our good times."
"I'll be a double disti=
lled
saint."
"I can't bear saints. J=
ust
be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't k=
now
what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money, =
but didn't
know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged h=
is
father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."
"You think I'm likely t=
o do
the same? Much obliged."
"No, I don't--oh, dear,
no!--but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I
sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn't worry then."
"Do you worry about me,
Jo?"
"A little, when you look
moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you've got such a strong w=
ill,
if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you.&quo=
t;
Laurie walked in silence a f=
ew
minutes, and Jo watched him, =
wishing
she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled =
as
if at her warnings.
"Are you going to deliv=
er
lectures all the way home?" he asked presently.
"Of course not. Why?&qu=
ot;
"Because if you are, I'=
ll
take a bus. If you're not, I'd like to walk with you and tell you something
very interesting."
"I won't preach any mor=
e,
and I'd like to hear the news immensely."
"Very well, then, come =
on.
It's a secret, and if I tell you, =
span>you
must tell me yours."
"I haven't got any,&quo=
t;
began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
"You know you have--you
can't hide anything, so up and fess,
or I won't tell," cried Laurie.
"Is your secret a nice
one?"
"Oh, isn't it! All about
people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to
tell it this long time. Come, you begin."
"You'll not say anything
about it at home, will you?"
"Not a word."
"And you won't tease me=
in
private?"
"I never tease."
"Yes, you do. You get
everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a
born wheedler."
"Thank you. Fire
away."
"Well, I've left two
stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his answer next week,"
whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.
"Hurrah for Miss March,=
the
celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and
catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens,=
and
half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now. "Hush!=
It
won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till I had tried, a=
nd I
said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone else to be
disappointed."
"It won't fail. Why, Jo,
your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is
published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we fe=
el
proud of our authoress?"
Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is
always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter =
than
a dozen newspaper puffs.
"Where's your secret? P=
lay
fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to
extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.
"I may get into a scrape
for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy =
in
my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's
glove is."
"Is that all? said Jo,
looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of
mysterious intelligence.
"It's quite enough for =
the
present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is."
"Tell, then."
Laurie bent, and whispered t=
hree
words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at=
him
for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you
know?"
"Saw it."
"Where?'
"Pocket."
"All this time?"
"Yes, isn't that
romantic?"
"No, it's horrid."=
"Don't you like it?&quo=
t;
"Of course I don't. It's
ridiculous, it won't be allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?"
"You are not to tell
anyone. Mind that."
"I didn't promise."=
;
"That was understood, a=
nd I
trusted you."
"Well, I won't for the
present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me."
"I thought you'd be
pleased."
"At the idea of anybody
coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."
"You'll feel better abo=
ut
it when somebody comes to take you away."
"I'd like to see anyone=
try
it," cried Jo fiercely.
"So should I!" And
Laurie chuckled at the idea.
"I don't think secrets
agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," s=
aid
Jo rather ungratefully.
"Race down this hill wi=
th
me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie.
No one was in sight, the smo=
oth
road sloped invitingly before her, and finding the temptation irresistible,=
Jo
darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as
she ran. Laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with the suc=
cess
of his treatment, for his Atalanta came panting up with flying hair, bright
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
"I wish I was a horse, =
then
I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was
capital, but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a che=
rub, as you are," said Jo, droppin=
g down
under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.
Laurie leisurely departed to
recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would
pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did pass, and who should it be=
but
Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she =
had
been making calls.
"What in the world are =
you
doing here?" she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred
surprise.
"Getting leaves,"
meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.
"And hairpins," ad=
ded
Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, =
Meg,
so do combs and brown straw hats."
"You have been running,=
Jo.
How could you? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg
reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the
wind had taken liberties.
"Never till I'm stiff a=
nd
old and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, =
Meg.
It's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little gir=
l as
long as I can."
As she spoke, Jo bent over t=
he
leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for lately she had felt that Marg=
aret
was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the
separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near. He sa=
w the
trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly,
"Where have you been calling, all so fine?"
"At the Gardiners', and
Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very
splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how
delightful that must be!"
"Do you envy her,
Meg?" said Laurie.
"I'm afraid I do."=
"I'm glad of it!"
muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
"Why?" asked Meg,
looking surprised.
"Because if you care mu=
ch
about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowni=
ng
at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.
"I shall never `go and
marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity while the
others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and `behaving like
children', as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to jo=
in
them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behave=
d so
queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when=
the
postman rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at
Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss =
her
in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one
another, and talking about `Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had
both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window,
Meg, as she sat sewing at her
window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the gard=
en
and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not
see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices a=
nd a
great flapping of newspapers.
"What shall we do with =
that
girl? She never will behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she wat=
ched
the race with a disapproving face.
"I hope she won't. She =
is
so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that s=
he
was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with anyone but her.
"It's very trying, but =
we
never can make her commy la fo," added Amy, who sat making some new fr=
ills
for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way., two agreeable
things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.
In a few minutes Jo bounced =
in,
laid herself on the sofa, and
affected to read.
"Have you anything
interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.
"Nothing but a story, w=
on't
amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of t=
he
paper out of sight.
"You'd better read it
aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy in h=
er
most grown-up tone.
"What's the name?"
asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet.
"The Rival Painters.&qu=
ot;
"That sounds well. Read=
it,"
said Meg.
With a loud "Hem!"=
and
a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest,
for the tale was romantic, and
somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like =
that
about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused.=
"I prefer the lovering
part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer?&quo=
t;
said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical.
"Who wrote it?" as=
ked
Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.
The reader suddenly sat up, = cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture = of solemnity and excitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."<= o:p>
"You?" cried Meg,
dropping her work.
"It's very good," =
said
Amy critically.
"I knew it! I knew it! =
Oh,
my Jo, I am so proud!" And Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over t=
his
splendid success.
Dear me, how delighted they =
all
were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words.
"Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper. How gracio=
usly
Amy critisized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a seq=
uel,
which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were d=
ead.
How Beth got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to
exclaim, "Sakes alive, w=
ell I
never!" in great astonishment at `that Jo's doin's'. How proud Mrs. Ma=
rch
was when she knew it. How Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declar=
ed
she might as well be a peacock and done with it. and how th `Spread Eagle'
might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as th=
e paper
passed from hand to hand.
"Tell us about it."
"When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?"
"What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the
family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish,
affectionate people mad a jubilee of every little household joy.
"Stop jabbering, girls,=
and
I'll tell you everything," said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any
grander over her Evilina than she did over her `Rival Painters'. Having tol=
d how
she disposed of her tales, Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer,
the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them pr=
int
in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and w=
hen
the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories,
and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on
seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I shall write more, a=
nd
he's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be
able to support myself and help the girls."
Jo's breath gave out here, a=
nd
wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few nat=
ural
tears, for to be independent =
and
earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and
this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.
"November is the most
disagreeable month in the whole year," said Margaret, standing at the
window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden.
"That's the reason I was
born in it," observed Jo pensively,&n=
bsp;
quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
"If something very plea=
sant
should happen now, we should think it a delightful month," said Beth, =
who
took a hopeful view of everything, even November.
"I dare say, but nothing
pleasant ever does happen in this family," said Meg, who was out of so=
rts.
"We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very
little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill."
"My patience, how blue =
we
are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other
girls having splendid times, =
while
you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage thi=
ngs
for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and good enough alrea=
dy,
so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly. Then you'd
dash out as an heiress, scorn
everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something i=
n a
blaze of splendor and elegance."
"People don't have fort=
unes
left them in that style nowadays, =
span>men
have to work and women marry for money. It's a dreadfully unjust world,&quo=
t;
said Meg bitterly.
"Jo and I are going to =
make
fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years, and see if we don't," said =
Amy,
who sat in a corner making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay model=
s of
birds, fruit, and faces.
"Can't wait, and I'm af=
raid
I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
though I'm grateful for your good intentions.
Meg sighed, and turned to the
frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and leaned both elbows on the table in=
a
despondent attitude, but Amy
spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, said,
smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away. Marmee is
coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he =
had
something nice to tell."
In they both came, Mrs. March
with her usual question, "Any letter from Father, girls?" and Lau=
rie
to say in his persuasive way, "Won't some of you come for a drive? I've
been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going=
to
freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and
I'm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. C=
ome, Jo, you and Beth will go, won't
you?"
"Of course we will.&quo=
t;
"Much obliged, but I'm
busy." And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for she had agreed with her mother=
that
it was best, for her at least, not
to drive too often with the young gentleman.
"We three will be ready=
in
a minute," cried Amy, running away to wash her hands.
"Can I do anything for =
you,
Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair with the
affectionate look and tone he always gave her.
"No, thank you, except call at=
the
office, if you'll be so kind, dear.
It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as regula=
r as
the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."
A sharp ring interrupted her,
and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter.
"It's one of them horrid
telegraph things, mum," she said,&nbs=
p;
handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage=
.
At the word `telegraph', Mrs.
March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into h=
er
chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie
dashed downstairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo rea=
d aloud,
in a frightened voice...
Mrs. March: Your husband is =
very
ill. Come at once. S. HALE Blank Hospital, Washington.
How still the room was as th=
ey
listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how sudd=
enly
the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother,
feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be =
taken
from them.
Mrs. March was herself again
directly, read the message over, and
stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgo=
t,
"I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear
it!"
For several minutes there was
nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of
comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in
tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she
set all the rest a good example, for with her, work was panacea for most af=
flictions.
"The Lord keep the dear
man! I won't waste no time a-cryin',
but git your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, =
as
she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand
with her own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.
"She's right, there's no
time for tears now. Be calm, girls,
and let me think."
They tried to be calm, poor
things, as their mother sat up, looking
pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.
"Where's Laurie?' she a=
sked
presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first dut=
ies
to be done.
"Here, ma'am. Oh, let m=
e do
something!" cried the boy, hurrying from the next room whither he had
withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his frie=
ndly
eyes to see.
"Send a telegram saying=
I
will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. I'll take
that."
"What else? The horses =
are
ready. I can go anywhere, do anything," he said, looking ready to fly =
to
the ends of the earth.
"Leave a note at Aunt
March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper."
Tearing off the blank side of
one of her newly copied pages, Jo
drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad
journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add to=
a
little to the sum for her father.
"Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. There is no need of that."<= o:p>
Mrs. March's warning was
evidently thrown away, for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window on =
his
own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.
"Jo, run to the rooms, =
and
tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put them
down, they'll be needed and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores=
are
not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of o=
ld wine.
I'm not too proud to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. =
Amy,
tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my
things, for I'm half bewildered."
Writing, thinking, and direc=
ting
all at once might well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit
quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work. Everyone scatter=
ed like
leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up =
as
suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying b=
ack
with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for=
the
invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the
mother's absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn'=
t offer,
from his own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossibl=
e.
Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journ=
ey,
yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill
fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his
hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had =
time
to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of
rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon M=
r.
Brooke.
"I'm very sorry to hear=
of
this, Miss March," he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very
pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. "I came to offer myself as escort =
to
your mother. Mr. Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will
give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there."
Down dropped the rubbers, and
the tea was very near following, as
Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke would
have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time=
and
comfort which he was about to take.
"How kind you all are!
Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she=
has
someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!"
Meg spoke earnestly, and for=
got
herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made =
her
remember the cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she woul=
d call
her mother.
Everything was arranged by t=
he
time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum,
and a few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she had alwa=
ys
told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted tha=
t no
good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next ti=
me.
Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on wi=
th
her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo would have
understood if she had been there.
The short afternoon wore awa=
y.
All other errands were done, =
and
Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy go=
th
tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a `slap and a ban=
g',
but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie went off to
find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed
her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of count=
enance,
for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, whi=
ch
puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mot=
her,
saying with a little choke in her voice, "That's my contribution toward
making Father comfortable and bringing him home!" "My dear, where=
did
you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything
rash?"
"No, it's mine honestly=
. I
didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I don't think you'll blame
me, for I only sold what was my own."
As she spoke, Jo took off her
bonnet, and a general outcry arose,
for all her abundant hair was cut short.
"Your hair! Your beauti=
ful
hair!" "Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." "My de=
ar
girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't look like my Jo any
more, but I love her dearly for it!"
As everyone exclaimed, and B=
eth
hugged the cropped head tenderly, =
span>Jo
assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bu=
sh and
trying to look as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the
nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity, I getting too p=
roud
of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head fe=
els
deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly c=
rop, which will be boyish, becoming, an=
d easy
to keep in order. I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have
supper."
"Tell me all about it, =
Jo.
I am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame you, for I know how willingly y=
ou
sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was =
not
necessary, and I'm afraid you will regret it one of these days," said =
Mrs.
March.
"No, I won't!"
returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely
condemned.
"What made you do it?&q=
uot;
asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pr=
etty
hair.
"Well, I was wild to to
something for Father," replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, f=
or
healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. "I hate to
borrow as much as Mother does, and
I knew Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.=
Meg
gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes =
with
mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold the nose
off my face to get it."
"You needn't feel wicke=
d,
my child! You had no winter things and got the simplest with your own hard =
earnings,"
said Mrs. March with a look that warmed Jo's heart.
"I hadn't the least ide=
a of
selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could =
do,
and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help
myself. In a barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and
one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all =
of a
sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to
think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for
mine."
"I don't see how you da=
red
to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe.
"Oh, he was a little man
who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared at first=
, as
if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy t=
heir
hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, a=
nd
he never paid much for it in the first place. The work he put it into it ma=
de it
dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn't done ri=
ght
away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a
thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told him why I=
was
in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I g=
ot
rather excited, and told the =
story
in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, `Take it,
Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I'd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I
had a spire of hair worth selling."
"Who was Jimmy?" a=
sked
Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along.
"Her son, she said, who=
was
in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She
talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."=
;
"Didn't you feel dreadf=
ully
when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a shiver.
"I took a last look at =
my
hair while the man got his things, <=
/span>and
that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confe=
ss,
though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and
felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an ar=
m or
leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to
keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a =
crop
is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again."
Mrs. March folded the wavy
chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only
said, "Thank you, deary," but something in her face made the girls
change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's
kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they wou=
ld
have when Father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed w=
hen
at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, "Come
girls." Beth went to the piano and played the father's favorite hymn. =
All
began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing =
with
all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.
"Go to bed and don't ta=
lk,
for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night=
, my
darlings," said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try
another.
They kissed her quietly, and
went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth a=
nd
Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thin=
king
the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay moti=
onless,
and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her
exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek...
"Jo, dear, what is it? =
Are
you crying about father?"
"No, not now."
"What then?"
"My...My hair!" bu=
rst
out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow.
It did not seem at all comic=
al
to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest mann=
er.
"I'm not sorry,"
protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again tomorrow, if I could. It's
only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell
anyone, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a litt=
le
private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?"
"I can't sleep, I'm so
anxious," said Meg.
"Think about something
pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
"I tried it, but felt w=
ider
awake than ever."
"What did you think
of?"
"Handsome faces--eyes
particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself in the dark. "What
color do you like best?"
"Brown, that is, someti=
mes.
Blue are lovely."
Jo, laughed, and Meg sharply
ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and f=
ell
asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air.
The clocks were striking
midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed =
to
bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling
a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious f=
ace,
to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers
which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dr=
eary
night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her li=
ke a
bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence," Be
comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds."
In the cold gray dawn the
sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt
before. For now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were
full of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye c=
heerfully
and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by t=
ears
or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down=
, so
dim and still outside, so ful=
l of
light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even
Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with =
her
nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonn=
et
lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale =
and
worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to ke=
ep
their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself, Jo was oblig=
ed
to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, ant the little girls
wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to the=
m.
Nobody talked much, but as t=
he
time drew very near and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said =
to
the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another
smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> and a forth fastening up her trave=
lling
bag...
"Children, I leave you =
to
Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself,=
and
our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for
you, yet I am anxious that you
should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone, or
think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying =
to
forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope a=
nd
keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be
fatherless."
"Yes, Mother."
"Meg, dear, be prudent,
watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr.
Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don=
't get
despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, read=
y to
help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful=
to
the little home duties, and You Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep
happy safe at home."
"We will, Mother! We
will!"
The rattle of an approaching
carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the
girls stood it well. No one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation,
though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to Father,=
remembering,
as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their
mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands
cheerfully when she drove away.
Laurie and his grandfather c=
ame
over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind =
that
the girls christened him `Mr. Greatheart' on the spot.
"Goodby, my darlings! G=
od
bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear
little face after the other, =
and
hurried into the carriage.
As she rolled away, the sun =
came
out, and looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate like a g=
ood
omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thin=
g she
beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them =
like
a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.
"How kind everyone is to
us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful
sympathy of the young man's face.
"I don't see how they c=
an
help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March
could not help smiling. And so the journey began with the good omens of
sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
"I feel as if there had
been an earthquake," said Jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfas=
t,
leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
"It seems as if half the
house was gone," added Meg forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say
something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay=
on
Mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thoug=
ht
and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their h=
earts,
and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried
bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to
relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she
came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot.
"Now, ny dear young lad=
ies,
remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee a=
ll
round, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family."
Coffee was a treat, and Hann=
ah
showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persua=
sive
nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. T=
hey drew
up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right =
again.
"`Hope and keep busy',
that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go=
to
Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she lecture though!" said Jo, as she
sipped with returning spirit.
"I shall go to my Kings,
though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here," said M=
eg,
wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
"No need of that. Beth =
and
I can keep house perfectly well," put in Amy, with an important air. &=
quot;Hannah
will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when you come
home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay.
"I think anxiety is very
interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar pensively.
The girls couldn't help
laughing, and felt better for it, =
span>though
Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar
bowl.
The sight of the turnovers m=
ade
Jo sober again, and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked
sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their moth=
er's
face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, a=
nd
there she was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.
"That's so like my
Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. "Goodbye,
Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain today. Don't fret about Father,
dear," she added, as they parted.
"And I hope Aunt March
won't croak. Your hair is becoming,
and it looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to=
smile
at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's should=
ers.
"That's my only
comfort." And, touching her hat a` la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn=
sheep
on a wintry day.
News from their father comfo=
rted
the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best a=
nd
tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin e=
very
day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches,
which grew more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and p=
lump
envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the
sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As=
one
of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob=
an
imaginary mail, and read them.
My dearest Mother:
It is impossible to tell you=
how
happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help
laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate
that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so u=
seful
to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the
sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she
might overdo, if I didn't know her `moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is =
as
regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She
grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little pian=
o.
Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, a=
nd I
am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very
hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr.
Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is
very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue
sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect
saint. She does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which =
is quite
proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, but=
we
long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and
believe me, ever your own...
MEG
This note, prettily written =
on
scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a b=
ig
sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flouri=
shes
and curly-tailed letters.
My precious Marmee:
Three cheers for dear Father!
Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was
better. I rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank god for
being so good to us, but I could only cry, and say, "I'm glad! I'm
glad!" Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? For I felt a great =
many
in my heart. We have such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyo=
ne
is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves. You'd la=
ugh
to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every =
day,
and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and
I-- well, I'm Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you tha=
t I
came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little
thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I ought, and he
marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declare=
d I
wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very muc=
h.
Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon. But I thought he'd=
come
to it, for I was in the right. He didn't come, and just at night I remember=
ed what
you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better,
resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I =
was
sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed,
begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
I made a `pome' yesterday, w=
hen
I was helping Hannah wash, an=
d as
Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him my
lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your...
TOPSY-TURVY JO
A SONG FROM THE SUDS
Queen of my tub, I merrily s=
ing, While the white foam rises high, And sturdily wash and rinse and wr=
ing, And fasten the clothes to dry. The=
n out
in the free fresh air they swing, =
span>Under
the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from out
hearts and souls The stains of the week away, And let water and air by their mag=
ic
make Ourselves as pure as they. Then on the earth there would be indeed,
Along the path of a useful l=
ife, Will heartsease ever bloom. The bu=
sy
mind has no time to think Of sorrow or care or gloom. And anxious thoughts =
may
be swept away, As we bravely =
wield
a broom.
I am glad a task to me is gi=
ven, To labor at day by day, For it brings me health and streng=
th and
hope, And I cheerfully learn =
to
say, "Head, you may thin=
k,
Heart, you may feel, But, Han=
d, you
shall work alway!"
Dear Mother,
There is only room for me to
send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping sa=
fe
in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all da=
y,
and sing myself to sleep with Father's tune. I can't sing `LAND OF THE LEAL'
now, it makes me cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can =
be
without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to=
cover
the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
Kiss dear Father on the chee=
k he
calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving . ..
LITTLE BETH
Ma Chere Mamma,
We are all well I do my less=
ons
always and never corroberate the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put=
in
both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and
lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it
keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now =
I am
almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking Fren=
ch
to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleev=
es
of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full f=
ront
came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fr=
et I
bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my apro=
ns
and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation
point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am
mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I s=
end
heaps of love to Papa. Your affectionate daughter . ..
AMY CURTIS MARCH
Dear Mis March,
I jes drop a line to say we =
git
on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is go=
ing
to make a proper good housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the =
hang
of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late f=
ust,
and you never know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of clot=
hes
on Monday, but she starched '=
em
afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I sho=
uld
a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help =
to
me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and
really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my he=
lp,
quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur. I don't let the gir=
ls
hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain
wholesome vittles. Amy does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes a=
nd
eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the
house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full=
swing.
The old gentleman send heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal,
and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this tim=
e. I
send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia.
Yours respectful,
Hannah Mullet
Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,
All serene on the Rappahannock, tro=
ops in
fine condition, commisary
department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on dut=
y,
Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster
Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A sal=
ute
of twenty-four guns was fired on reciept of good news from Washington, and a
dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wish=
es, in which he is heartily joined by.=
..
COLONEL TEDDY
Dear Madam:
The little girls are all wel=
l.
Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty =
Meg
like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and dr=
aw on
me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want
anything. Thank God he is mending.
Your sincere friend and serv=
ant, JAMES LAURENCE
For a week the amount of vir=
tue
in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazin=
g,
for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all th=
e fashion.
Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, girls insensibly relaxed their
praiseworthy efforts a little, and
began to fall back into old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hopi=
ng
and keeping busy seemed to grow easier,&nb=
sp;
and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserve=
d a
holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through
neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till
she was better, for Aunt March
didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, a=
nd
after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to n=
urse
her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not=
go
well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, =
and
sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long
letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches over and over. =
Beth
kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.
All the little duties were
faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were
forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone
a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for Mother or fears for
Father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a=
dear
old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by
herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone fe=
lt
how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for com=
fort
or advice in their small affairs.
All were unconscious that th=
is
experience was a test of character, and when the first excitement was over,
felt that they had done well and deserved praise. So they did, but their mi=
stake
was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety
and regret.
"Meg, I wish you'd go a=
nd
see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not to forget them." said Bet=
h,
ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
"I'm too tired to go th=
is
afternoon," re;lied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed.
"Can't you, Jo?' asked
Beth.
"Too stormy for me with=
my
cold."
"I thought it was almost
well."
"It's well enough for m=
e to
go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels'," said J=
o,
laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
"Why don't you go
yourself?" asked Meg.
"I have been every day,=
but
the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away=
to
work, and Lottchen takes care of it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I t=
hink
you or Hannah ought to go."
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg
promised she would go tomorrow.
"Ask Hannah for some ni=
ce
little mess, and take it round, Beth,
the air will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically,
"I'd go but I want to finish my writing."
"My head aches and I'm
tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go," said Beth.
"Amy will be in present=
ly,
and she will run down for us, suggested
Meg.
So Beth lay down on the sofa,
the others returned to their work, <=
/span>and
the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went to her room to try on a n=
ew
dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the
kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds
and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air with a hea=
vy head
and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and=
no
one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an
hour after, Jo went to `Mother's closet' for something, and there found lit=
tle
Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a
camphor bottle in her hand.
"Christopher Columbus!
What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn h=
er
off, and asked quickly, "You've had the scarlet fever, havent't you?&q=
uot;
"Years ago, when Meg di=
d.
Why?'
"Then I'll tell you. Oh,
Jo, the baby's dead!"
"What baby?"
"Mrs. Hummel's. It died=
in
my lap before she got home," cried Beth with a sob.
"My poor dear, how drea=
dful
for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo, taking her sister in her arms=
as
she sat down in her mother's bit chair, with a remorseful face.
"It wasn't dreadful, Jo,
only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother =
had
gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but=
all
of a sudden if gave a little cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I t=
ried
to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I kn=
ew
it was dead."
"Don't cry, dear! What =
did
you do?"
"I just sat and held it
softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and look=
ed
at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore throats. `Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought =
to
have called me before, ' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor,
and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could =
only
ask him to help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then,
and was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned r=
ound
all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or =
I'd
have the fever."
"No, you won't!" c=
ried
Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. "Oh, Beth, if you shoul=
d be
sick I never could forgive myself! What shall we do?"
"Don't be frightened, I
guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in Mother's book, and saw that it be=
gins
with headache, sore throat, a=
nd
queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and tryi=
ng
to look well.
"If Mother was only at
home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an
immense way off. She read a page, =
span>looked
at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely,
"You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among t=
he
others who are going to have it, so I'm afraid you are going to have it, Be=
th.
I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness." "Don't let Amy c=
ome.
She never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you and Meg ha=
ve
it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously.
"I guess not. Don't car=
e if
I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, <=
/span>to
let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went=
to
consult Hannah.
The good soul was wide awake=
in
a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring that there was no need to wor=
ry;
every one had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of wh=
ich
Jo believed, and felt much re=
lieved
as they went up to call Meg.
"Now I'll tell you what
we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth,
"we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see tha=
t we
start right. Then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's for a spell, to keep h=
er
out of harm's way, and one of=
you
girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two."
"I shall stay, of cours=
e,
I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful.
"I shall, because it's =
my
fault she is sick. I told Mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't," s=
aid
Jo decidedly.
"Which will you have, B=
eth?
There ain't no need of but one," aid Hannah.
"Jo, please." And =
Beth
leaned her head against her sister with a contented look, which effectually
settled that point.
"I'll go and tell
Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whol=
e,
for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.
Amy rebelled outright, and p=
assionately
declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg
reasoned, pleaded, and comman=
ded,
all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg left her in despair to ask
Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the pa=
rlor
to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story,
expecting to be consoled, but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and
walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thoug=
ht.
Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone,
"Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but
hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and =
take
you out every day, driving or walking,&nbs=
p;
and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping
here?"
"I don't wish to be sent
off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an injured voice.
"Bless your heart, chil=
d,
it's to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you?"
"No, I'm sure I don't, =
but
I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time."
"That's the very reason=
you
ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care
will keep you well, I dare say, or if it does not entirely, you will have t=
he
fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet
fever is no joke, miss."
"But it's dull at Aunt
March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking rather frightened.
"It won't be dull with =
me
popping; in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivantin=
g.
The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't
peck at us, whatever we do."
"Will you take me out in
the trotting wagon with Puck?"
"On my honor as a
gentleman."
"And come every single
day?"
"See if I don't/"<= o:p>
"And bring me back the
minute Beth is well?"
"The identical
minute."
"And go to the theater,
truly?"
"A dozen theaters, if we
may."
"Well--I guess I
will," said Amy slowly.
"Good girl! Call Meg, a=
nd
tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with an approving pat, which
annoyed Amy more than the `giving in'.
Meg and Jo came running down=
to
behold the miracle which had been wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious a=
nd
self-sacrificing, promised to=
go,
if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
"How is the little
dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more
anxious about her than he liked to show.
"She is lying down on
Mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare s=
ay
she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and
that makes me fidgety," answered Meg.
"What a trying world it
is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful way. "No sooner d=
o we
get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem to be
anything to hold on to when Mother's gone, so I'm all at sea."
"Well, don't make a
porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me =
if I
shall telegraph to your mother, or
do anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss =
of
his friend's one beauty.
"That is what troubles
me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really il=
l,
but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother can't leave Father, and it will only
make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to d=
o,
and Mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't s=
eem
quite right to me."
"Hum, well, I can't say.
Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor has been."
"We will. Jo, go and ge=
t Dr.
Bangs at once," commanded Meg. "We can't decide anything till he =
has
been."
"Stay where you are, Jo.
I'm errand boy to this establishment," said Laurie, taking up his cap.=
"I'm afraid you are
busy," began Meg.
"No, I've done my lesso=
ns
for the day."
"Do you study in vacati=
on
time?" asked Jo.
"I follow the good exam=
ple
my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of =
the
room.
"I have great hopes for=
my
boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving
smile.
"He does very well, for=
a
boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not
interest her.
Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had
symptoms of the fever, but he thought she would have it lightly, though he
looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provid=
ed
with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and
Laurie as escort.
Aunt March received them with
her usual hospitality.
"What do you want
now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot,
sitting on the back of her chair, =
span>called
out...
"Go away. No boys allow=
ed
here."
Laurie retired to the window,
and Jo told her story.
"No more than I expecte=
d,
if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and ma=
ke
herself useful if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be, looks li=
ke it
now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff." Amy was on=
the
point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Po=
lly
to utter an astonished croak and call out, "Bless my boots!" in s=
uch
a funny way, that she laughed instead.
"What do you hear from =
your
mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.
"Father is much
better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
"Oh, is her? Well, that
won't last long, I fancy. March never had any stamina," was the cheerf=
ul
reply.
"Ha, ha! Never say die,
take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!" squalled Polly, dancing on h=
er
perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.=
"Hold your tongue, you
disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you'd better go at once. It isn't proper t=
o be
gadding about so late with a rattlepated boy like..."
"Hold your tongue, you
disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly,=
tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the `rattl=
epated'
boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
"I don't think I can be=
ar
it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March.=
"Get along, you
fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy could not restrai=
n a
sniff.
Beth did have the fever, and=
was
much sicker than anyone but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew
nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hann=
ah
had everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good
deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the
Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wr=
ote
letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think=
it
right to deceive her mother, =
but
she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of `Mrs. March
bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.'
Jo devoted herself to Beth d=
ay
and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain
uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time
when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to =
play
on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a
throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did not know
the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called
imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allow=
ed
to write the truth, and even Hannah said she `would think of it, though the=
re
was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr=
. March
had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now,
how sad and lonely the house, and
how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while t=
he
shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret,
sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had =
been
in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy--in love, protect=
ion,
peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living =
in the
darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and
that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and to
sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled =
in
all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to li=
ve
for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues wh=
ich
all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, weal=
th, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, =
longed
eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no
service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how
many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted t=
he
house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locke the grand piano, becaus=
e he
could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the
twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer,
and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for h=
er
thoughtlessness and to get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts=
of
comforts and good wishes, and=
even
those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little =
Beth
had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed
with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget =
her
forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, =
lest
they should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about =
Jo.
She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would w=
rite
soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that Fath=
er
might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of
consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with
incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her =
no
refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a=
telegram
in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from
Beth's side.
The first of December was a
wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the =
year
seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he lo=
oked
long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it g=
ently
down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her h=
usband
she'd better be sent for."
Hannah nodded without speaki=
ng,
for her lips twitched nervously, Meg
dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at =
the
sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to
the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out
into the storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her clo=
ak,
Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo r=
ead it
thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her
face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, "What is it? Is Beth worse?&q=
uot;
"I've sent for
Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression=
.
"Good for you, Jo! Did =
you
do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he seated her in t=
he
hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.
"No. The doctor told us
to."
"Oh, Jo, it's not so ba=
d as
that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.
"Yes, it is. She doesn't
know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls
the vine leaves on the wall. She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nob=
ody
to help us bear it. Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I
can't find Him."
As the tears streamed fast d=
own
poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as =
if
groping in the dark, and Laur=
ie
took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat,
"I'm here. Hold on tome, Jo, dear!"
She could not speak, but she=
did
`hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore
heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could up=
hold
her in her trouble.
Laurie longed to say somethi=
ng
tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silen=
t,
gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thi=
ng
he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo =
felt
the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which
affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved
her, and looked up with a grateful face.
"Thank you, Teddy, I'm
better now. I don't feel so forlorn,
and will try to bear it if it comes."
"Keep hoping for the be=
st,
that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything =
will
be all right."
"I'm so glad Father is
better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem a=
s if
all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my
shoulders," sighed Jo, s=
preading
her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.
"Doesn't Meg pull
fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.
"Oh, yes, she tries to,=
but
she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my
conscience, and I can't give her up. I can't! I can't!"
Down went Jo's face into the=
wet
handkerchief, and she cried despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till =
now
and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not
speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his =
lips.
It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presentl=
y,
as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she will die.
She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take h=
er
away yet."
"The good and dear peop=
le
always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's w=
ords
cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears.
"Poor girl, you're worn=
out.
It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit. I'll hearten you up in a
jiffy."
Laurie went off two stairs a=
t a
time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which =
no
one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have
possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed =
to
enter into Jo, and when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she =
took
it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth! You a=
re a
good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay
you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had
done her troubled mind.
"I'll send my bill,
by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you some- thing that will warm the cockles=
of
your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her wi=
th a
face of suppressed satisfaction at something.
"What is it?" cried
Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?"<= o:p>
Laurie spoke very fast, and
turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, =
for
fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew =
out of
her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwi=
ng
her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "Oh, Lauri=
e!
Oh, Mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysteri=
cally,
and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by t=
he
sudden news.
Laurie, though decidedly ama=
zed,
behaved with great presence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and fin=
ding
that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which bro=
ught
Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, say=
ing
breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but=
you
were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help fl=
ying
at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act
so."
"I don't mind,"
laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did
Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your
mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth... Well, if anything
happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did somethi=
ng, and off I pelted to the office
yesterday, for the doctor looked sober,&nb=
sp;
and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never=
can
bear to be `lorded over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother
will come, I know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her,=
and
you've only got to bottle up your rapture,=
and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here."
"Laurie, you're an ange=
l!
How shall I ever thank you?"
"Fly at me again. I rat=
her
liked it," said Laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done f=
or a
fortnight.
"No, thank you. I'll do=
it
by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for
you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!"
Jo had backed into a corner,=
and
as she finished her speech, s=
he
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser =
and
told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!" while Laurie
departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it.
"That's the interfering=
est
chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right
away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news.=
Meg had a quiet rapture, and
then brooded over the letter, while
Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah `knocked up a couple of pies in ca=
se
of company unexpected". A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through t=
he
house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms.
Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth's bird began to chirp
again, and a half-blown rose =
was
discovered on Amy's bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusu=
al
cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smile=
s as
they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, d=
ear!
Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy
stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteo=
us
sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wa=
sted,
the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scatt=
ered
rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she say so, only rousing now and t=
hen
to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape =
the
word. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and
trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind rage=
d,
and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the
clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked =
at
each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The do=
ctor
had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably ta=
ke
place about midnight, at which time he would return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay =
down
on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to=
and
fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than M=
rs.
March's countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring in=
to the
fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and
clear.
The girls never forgot that
night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadf=
ul
sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.
"If God spares Beth, I
never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly.
"If god spares Beth, I'=
ll
try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor=
.
"I wish I had no heart,=
it
aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.
"If life is often as ha=
rd
as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sist=
er
despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve,
and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change pass=
ed
over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailin=
g of
the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sis=
ters
saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went =
by,
and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Anoth=
er
hour, still no one came, and
anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at
Washington, haunted the girls.
It was past two, when Jo, who
stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding she=
et
of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling=
before
their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed cold=
ly
over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell
me."
She was back at her post in =
an
instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place.=
The
fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face loo=
ked so
pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to
lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with =
her
heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Goodby, my Beth. Goodby!&quo=
t;
As if awaked by the stir, Ha=
nnah
started out of her sleep, hur=
ried
to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then,
throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming,
under her breath, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin' nat'ral, her ski=
n's
damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!"
Before the girls could belie=
ve
the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but th=
ey
thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly lo=
ok at
them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this t=
ime.
Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..."
What they were to give, neit=
her
heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held =
each
other close, rejoicing with h=
earts
too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful
Hannah, they found Beth lying, as
she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor go=
ne,
and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
"If Mother would only c=
ome
now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane.
"See," said Meg,
coming up with a white, half-opened rose,&=
nbsp;
"I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tom=
orrow
if she--went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mea=
n to
put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she
sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face."
Never had the sun risen so
beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy
eyes of Meg and Jo, as they l=
ooked
out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
"It looks like a fairy
world," said Meg, smiling to herself,=
as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
"Hark!" cried Jo,
starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of be=
lls
at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a
joyful whisper, "Girls, =
she's
come! She's come!"
While these things were
happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her
exile deeply, and for the first time in her life, realized how much she was=
beloved
and petted at home. Aunt March never petted any one. She did not approve of=
it,
but she meant to be kind, for the well- behaved little girl pleased her very
much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's
children, though she didn't think it proper to confess it. She really did h=
er best
to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old people ke=
ep
young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with
children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise
lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweete=
st way.
But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her ru=
les
and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more do=
cile
and amiable than her sister, =
the
old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad
effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy by the hand, and ta=
ught
her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a process which carried
dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very str=
ict spider.
She had to wash the cups eve=
ry
morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and=
the
glasses till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job=
that
was. Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had claw l=
egs
and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed,=
the
lap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or deliver
orders, for the old lady was =
very
lame and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do
her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she
was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it?
Laurie came every day, and
wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walk=
ed
and rode and had capital times. After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit
still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she
dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy
sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was
allowed to amuse herself as she liked till teatime. The evenings were the w=
orst
of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which =
were
so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to be, intending to cry
over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out =
more
than a tear or two.
If it had not been for Lauri=
e,
and old Esther, the maid, she=
felt
that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone =
was
enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire hi=
m,
and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hai=
r whenever
she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had newly
cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed, called=
her
names before company, and behaved in all respects like an reprehensible old
bird. Then she could not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast who snarled and=
yelped
at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back with all his legs =
in
the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted somethi=
ng
to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the=
old
coachman was deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the
young lady.
Esther was a Frenchwoman, who
had lived with`Madame', as she called her mistress, for many years, and who
rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her. H=
er
real name was Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that =
she
was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, a=
nd
amused her very much with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat w=
ith
her while she got up Madam's laces. She also allowed her to roam about the
great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the b=
ig
wardrobes and the ancient chests, =
span>for
Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet,
full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes,=
and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious=
, all
more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great
satisfaction, especially the =
jewel
cases, in which on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a
belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when =
she
came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover's
diamonds, the jet mourning ri=
ngs
and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends and weeping wil=
lows
made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, U=
ncle
March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with=
, and in a box all by itself lay Aunt
March's wedding ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully a=
way
like the most precious jewel of them all.
"Which would Mademoisel=
le
choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, wo always sat near to watch
over and lock up the valuables.
"I like the diamonds be=
st,
but there is no necklace among them,
and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose thi=
s if
I might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of go=
ld
and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
"I, too, covet that, but
not as a necklace. Ah, no! To me it is a rosary, and as such I should use it
like a good catholic," said Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfull=
y.
"Is it meant to use as =
you
use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?"
asked Amy.
"Truly, yes, to pray wi=
th.
It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this,
instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."
"You seem to take a gre=
at
deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther,
and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."
"If Mademoiselle was a
Catholic, she would find true comfort,&nbs=
p;
but as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each da=
y to
meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame. She
had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble."
"Would it be right for =
me to
do so too?" asked Amy, who in her loneliness felt the need of help of =
some
sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth w=
as
not there to remind her of it.
"It would be excellent =
and
charming, and I shall gladly arrange the little dressing room for you if you
like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a =
while
to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God preserve your sister."
Esther was truly pious, and
quite sincere in her advice, for she had an affectionate heart, and felt mu=
ch
for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to
arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.
"I wish I knew where all
these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies," she said, as she
slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the jewel cases one by one.
"To you and your sister=
s. I
know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed her will, and it is to be so,&q=
uot;
whispered Esther smiling.
"How nice! But I wish she'd le=
t us
have them now. Procrastinatio=
n is
not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
"It is too soon yet for=
the
young ladies to wear these things. The first one who is affianced will have=
the
pearls, Madame has said it, and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ri=
ng
will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior an=
d charming
manners."
"Do you think so? Oh, I=
'll
be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! It's ever so much prettier =
than
Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March after all." And Amy tried on the =
blue
ring with a delighted face and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a mode=
l of
obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her trainin=
g.
Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before =
it, and over it a picture taken from o=
ne of
the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being
appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it,=
nor
care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous
pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of loo=
king
up at the sweet face of the Divine Mother,=
while her tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the
table she laid her little testament and hymnbook, kept a vase always full of
the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every day to `sit alone' thin=
king
good thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister. Esther had
given her a rosary of black beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up a=
nd
did not use it, feeling doubt=
ful as
to its fitness for Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sin=
cere
in all this, for being left alone outside the safe home nest, she felt the =
need
of some kind hand to hold by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the=
strong
and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds His little
children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but
having been taught where to look, =
span>she
did her best to find the way and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young
pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget
herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one=
saw
or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she
decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall i=
ll
and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost he=
r a
pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were=
as
precious as the old lady's jewels.
During one of her play hours=
she
wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from
Esther as to certain legal terms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman had
signed her name, Amy felt relieved and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she
wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amu=
se
herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. =
In
this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes with which Es=
ther
allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in =
the
faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making state=
ly
curtsies, and sweeping her train about with a rustle which delighted her ea=
rs.
So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring nor see his
face peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her f=
an
and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue br=
ocade
dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for =
she
had on highheeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical=
sight
to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidilng and bridling just
behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh=
or
exclaim, "Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss=
me,
dear! Ha! Ha!"
Having with difficulty
restrained an explosion of merriment,
lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously =
received.
"Sit down and rest whil=
e I
put these things away, then I want to consult you about a very serious
matter," said Amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven Polly in=
to a
corner. "That bird is the trial of my life," she continued, remov=
ing
the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride a chai=
r. "Yesterday, when Aunt was asl=
eep
and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap
about in his cage, so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I
poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase. Polly marched straight after i=
t,
stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with =
a cock
of his eye, `Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't help laughing,
which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both."
"Did the spider accept =
the
old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie, yawning.
"Yes, out it came, and =
away
ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on Aunt's chair, calling o=
ut,
`Catch her! Catch her! Catch her!' as I chased the spider."
"That's a lie! Oh,
lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
"I'd wring your neck if=
you
were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bir=
d,
who put his head on one side and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer! Bless yo=
ur
buttons, dear!"
"Now I'm ready," s=
aid
Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of paper out of her pocket.
"I want you to read that, please,&nbs=
p;
and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for l=
ife
is uncertain and I don't want any ill feeling over my tomb."
Laurie bit his lips, and tur=
ning
a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with
praiseworthy gravity, conside=
ring
the spelling:
MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT
I, Amy Curtis March, being i=
n my
sane mind, go give and bequeethe all my earthly property--viz.to wit:--name=
ly
To my father, my best pictur=
es,
sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do wha=
t he
likes with.
To my mother, all my clothes,
except the blue apron with pockets--also my likeness, and my medal, with mu=
ch
love.
To my dear sister Margaret, I
give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my green box with the doves on =
it,
also my; piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memoria=
l of
her 'little girl'.
To Jo I leave my breastpin, =
the
one mended with sealing wax, =
also
my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most precious plaster rabbit,
because I am sorry I burned up her story.
To Beth (if she lives after =
me)
I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new
slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith=
also
leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
To my friend and neighbor Th=
eodore
Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay portfolio, my clay model of a horse th=
ough
he did say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the
hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.
To our venerable benefactor =
Mr.
Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will=
be
nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his
favors to her family, especially Beth.
I wish my favorite playmate
Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.=
To Hannah I give the bandbox=
she
wanted and all the patchwork I leave hoping she `will remember me, when it =
you
see'.
And now having disposed of my
most valuable property I hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead.=
I
forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Ame=
n.
To this will and testiment I=
set
my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
Amy Curtis March
Witnesses:
Estelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence.
The last name was written in pencil=
, and
Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her prope=
rly.
"What put it into your
head? Did anyone tell you about Beth's giving away her things?" asked
Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, a=
nd a
standish before him.
She explained and then asked
anxiously, "What about Beth?"
"I'm sorry I spoke, but=
as
I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to
give her piano to Meg, her ca=
ts to
you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was s=
orry
she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her
best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will."
Laurie was signing and seali=
ng
as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Am=
y's
face was full of trouble, but she only said, "Don't people put sort of=
postscripts
to their wills, sometimes?"
"Yes, `codicils', they =
call
them."
"Put one in mine then, =
that
I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, bu=
t I
want it done though it will spoil my looks."
Laurie added it, smiling at
Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was =
much
interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to
whisper with trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?&q=
uot;
"I'm afraid there is, b=
ut
we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear." And Laurie put his arm
about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to
her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with strea=
ming
tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not=
console
her for the loss of her gentle little sister.
I don't think I have any wor=
ds
in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters. Such hours are
beautiful to live, but very h=
ard to
describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying
that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was
realized, for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objec=
ts
on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face. Too weak to
wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms ab=
out
her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept
again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the
thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.
Hannah had `dished up' and
astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her
excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful y=
oung
storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr.
Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasion=
ed
on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face =
had
given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.
What a strange yet pleasant =
day
that was. So brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to
welcome the first snow. So quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept,
spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard=
at
the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed th=
eir
weary eyes, and lay at rest, =
like
storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not l=
eave
Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, a=
nd
brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.
Laurie meanwhile posted off =
to
comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually `sniffed'
herself, and never once said "I told you so". Amy came out so str=
ong
on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really
began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience=
to
see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old =
lady
heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved `like a capital little
woman'. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed=
her
buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in his m=
ost
affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry
weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of ma=
nful
efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while s=
he
wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she retu=
rned,
he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had
pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benigni=
ty.
After a while, they began to
think he was not going to wake up till night, and I'm not sure that he woul=
d,
had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her moth=
er. There
probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day,
but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat=
in
her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensatio=
n in
the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in
the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explain=
ed
to her.
"On the contrary, I lik=
e it
very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little
book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. "It is an
excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things =
vex or
grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can
always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is
learning this."
"Yes, Mother, and when =
I go
home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books and the copy=
of
that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is not good, it's t=
oo
beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and I love it very m=
uch.
I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away,=
and
that helps me."
As Amy pointed to the smiling
Christ child on his Mother's knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted h=
and
that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and aft=
er a
minute's pause, she added gravely, "I wanted to speak to you about thi=
s,
but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today. She called me to her and kiss=
ed
me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like=
to
keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's=
too
big. I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?"
"They are very pretty, =
but
I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. Ma=
rch,
looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the
forefinger, and the quaint gu=
ard
formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.
"I'll try not to be
vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only because it's so
pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to
remind me of something."
"Do you mean Aunt
March?" asked her mother, laughing.
"No, to remind me not t=
o be
selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it that her mother
stopped laughing, and listened
respectfully to the little plan.
"I've thought a great d=
eal
lately about my `bundle of naughties', and being selfish is the largest one=
in
it, so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and =
that's
the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing he=
r.
People wouldn't feel so bat about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to =
have
them, but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm g=
oing
to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions, but if=
I
had something always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May we=
try
this way?"
"Yes, but I have more f=
aith
in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best. I
think you will prosper, for t=
he
sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Kee=
p up
your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again."
That evening while Meg was
writing to her father to report the traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped
upstairs into Beth's room, and
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers =
in
her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
"What is it, deary?' as=
ked
Mrs. March, holding out her hand, =
span>with
a face which invited confidence.
"I want to tell you
something, Mother."
"About Meg?"
"How quickly you guesse=
d!
Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me."
"Beth is asleep. Speak =
low,
and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?" asked
Mrs. March rather sharply.
"No. I should have shut=
the
door in his face if he had," said Jo, settling herself on the floor at=
her
mother's feet. "Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the
Laurences' and only one was returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me
that Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so =
young
and he so poor. Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?"
"Do you think Meg cares=
for
him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look.
"Mercy me! I don't know
anything about love and such nonsense!" cried Jo, with a funny mixture=
of
interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls show it by starting and
blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does =
not
do anything of the sort. She eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible
creature, she looks straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only
blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, =
but
he doesn't mind me as he ought."
"Then you fancy that Me=
g is
not interested in John?'
"Who?" cried Jo,
staring.
"Mr. Brooke. I call him
`John' now. We fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes
it."
"Oh, dear! I know you'll
take his part. He's been good to Father, and you won't send him away, but l=
et
Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping =
you, just to wheedle you into liking
him." And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
"My dear, don't get ang=
ry
about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr.
Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help
getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he =
told
us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to m=
arry
him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to
make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we co=
uld
not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herse=
lf so
young."
"Of course not. It woul=
d be
idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I felt it, and now it's worse t=
han
I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the =
family."
This odd arrangement made Mr=
s.
March smile, but she said gravely, "Jo, I confide in you and don't wish
you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them togeth=
er,
I can judge better of her feelings toward him."
"She'll see those hands=
ome
eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She's got s=
uch
a soft heart, it will melt li=
ke
butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her. She read the short
reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke=
of
it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go
and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cozy times toget=
her.
I see it all! They'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to do=
dge.
Meg will be absorbed and no good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a
fortune somehow, carry her off, and
make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and everything will =
be
abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! Why weren't we all boys, then there
wouldn't be any bother."
Jo leaned her chin on her kn=
ees
in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mr=
s.
March sighed, and Jo looked u=
p with
an air of relief.
"You don't like it, Mot=
her?
I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word =
of
it, but all be happy together as we always have been."
"I did wrong to sigh, J=
o.
It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own in time, but=
I
do want to keep my girls as long as I can, and I am sorry that this happene=
d so
soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before John can m=
ake
a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herse=
lf
in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another,
they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I h=
ave
no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender hearted girl! I hop=
e things
will go happily with her."
"Hadn't you rather have=
her
marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little o=
ver
the last words.
"Money is a good and us=
eful
thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly =
not
be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly establis=
hed in
some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from
debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a
fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come =
with
love and virtue, also, I shou=
ld
accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experie=
nce,
how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the da=
ily
bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I=
am
content to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be rich=
in
the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune.&qu=
ot;
"I understand, Mother, =
and
quite agree, but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd planned to have her ma=
rry
Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be
nice?" asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face.
"He is younger than she,
you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in...
"Only a little, he's old
for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes.
Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pi=
ty
my plan is spoiled."
"I'm afraid Laurie is
hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock ju=
st
now for anyone to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo, but let time and their o=
wn hearts
mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better n=
ot
get `romantic rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our
friendship."
"Well, I won't, but I h=
ate
to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull her =
and
a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flatirons on our heads=
would
keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more's t=
he
pity!"
"What's that about
flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into the room with the
finished letter in her hand.
"Only one of my stupid
speeches. I'm going to bed. Come, =
span>Peggy,"
said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
"Quite right, and
beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John," said Mrs.
March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.
"Do you call him
`John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into =
her
mother's.
"Yes, he has been like a
son to us, and we are very fond of him," replied Mrs. March, returning=
the
look with a keen one.
"I'm glad of that, he i=
s so
lonely. Good night, Mother, d=
ear.
It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's answer=
.
The kiss her mother gave her=
was
a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of
satisfaction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but will soon le=
arn
to.
Jo's face was a study next d=
ay,
for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look
mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to m=
ake inquiries,
for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of
contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. S=
he
was rather surprised, therefore, when
the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which
decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn assumed an air of dignified reserve a=
nd
devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. Ma=
rch
had taken her place as nurse, and
bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy
being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much as she enjoyed his society,
she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she
feared he would coax the secret from her.
She was quite right, for the
mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than he set himself to fi=
nd
it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, thr=
eatened,
and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from h=
er;
declared her knew, then that he didn't care; and at last, by dint of
perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke.
Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set=
his
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
Meg meanwhile had apparently
forgotten the matter and was absorbed in preparations for her father's retu=
rn,
but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two=
, she was quite unlike herself. She
started when spoken to, blush=
ed
when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her=
face.
To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's she
silenced by begging to be let alone.
"She feels it in the
air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's got most of the
symptoms--is twittery and cross, doesn't
eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he ga=
ve
her, and once she said `John', as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy.
whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however
violent.
"Nothing but wait. Let =
her
alone, be kind and patient, and Father's coming will settle everything,&quo=
t;
replied her mother.
"Here's a note to you, =
Meg,
all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine," said Jo next day, as =
she
distributed the contents of the little post office.
Mrs. March and Jo were deep =
in
their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see her stari=
ng
at her note with a frightened face.
"My child, what is
it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper w=
hich
had done the mischief.
"It's all a mistake, he
didn't send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?" and Meg hid her face in =
her
hands, crying as if her heart were quite broken.
"Me! I've done nothing!
What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered.
Meg's mild eyes kindled with
anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket and threw it at Jo, say=
ing
reproachfully, "You wrot=
e it,
and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel t=
o us
both?"
Jo hardly heard her, for she=
and
her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.
"My Dearest Margaret,
"I can no longer restra=
in
my passion, and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your par=
ents
yet, but I think they would consent if they knew that we adored one another.
Mr. Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you =
will
make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send=
one
word of hope through Laurie to,
"Your devoted John.&quo=
t;
"Oh, the little villain! That'=
s the
way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to Mother. I'll give him a hearty
scolding and bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execu=
te immediate
justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore.=
..
"Stop, Jo, you must cle=
ar
yourself first. You have played so many pranks that I am afraid you have ha=
d a
hand in this."
"On my word, Mother, I
haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't know anything about it, as
true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. "I=
f I
had taken part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written a
sensible note. I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write su=
ch
stuff as that," she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
"It's like his
writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand. "=
Oh,
Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.
"Yes, I did!" and =
Meg
hid her face again, overcome with shame.
"Here's a scrape! Do le=
t me
bring that wicked boy over to explain and be lectured. I can't rest till I =
get
hold of him." And Jo made for the door again.
"Hush! Let me handle th=
is,
for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,"
commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she
should fly off.
"I received the first
letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it,"
began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at first and meant to te=
ll
you, then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't =
mind
if I kept my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to thi=
nk
no one knew, and while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in
books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, Mother, I'm paid for my
silliness now. I never can look him in the face again."
"What did you say to hi=
m?'
asked Mrs. March.
"I only said I was too
young to do anything about it yet, <=
/span>that
I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was =
very
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a
long while."
Mrs. March smiled, as if well
pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are
almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg=
. What
did he say to that?"
"He writes in a differe=
nt
way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love letter at all, and is =
very
sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take liberties with our names. It'=
s very
kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"
Meg leaned against her mothe=
r,
looking the image of despair, and
Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stoppe=
d,
caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly,
"I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote
both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because I wouldn't tell him my
secret."
"Don't have any secrets,
Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble, as I should have done,"
said Meg warningly.
"Bless you, child! Moth=
er
told me."
"That will do, Jo. I'll
comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bot=
tom,
and put a stop to such pranks at once." Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March ge=
ntly
told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do=
you
love him enough to wait till her can make a home for you, or will you keep
yourself quite free for the present?"
"I've been so scared and
worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while,
perhaps never,"
answered Meg petulantly.
"If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and
make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and =
made
a fool of. It's a shame!"
Seeing Meg's usually gentle
temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March
soothed her by promises of entire silence and great discretion for the futu=
re.
The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, a=
nd
Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wante=
d,
fearing he wouldn't come, but=
he
knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood twirling his hat with a
guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to marc=
h up
and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might
bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened during that inte=
rview
the girls never knew.
When they were called in, La=
urie
was standing by their mother with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him =
on
the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his hu=
mble
apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of
the joke.
"I'll never tell him to=
my
dying day, wild horses shan't drag it out of me, so you'll forgive me, Meg,=
and
I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking
very much ashamed of himself.
"I'll try, but it was a
very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn't think you could be so sly and
malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hid her maidenly confusion
under a gravely reproachful air.
"It was altogether
abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month, but you will,
though, won't you?" And Laurie folded his hands together with such and
imploring gesture, as he spok=
e in
his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him =
in
spite of his scandalous behavior.
Meg pardoned him, and Mrs.
March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she
heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances,
and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile,
trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up =
her
face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once=
or
twice, but as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned =
his
back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow =
and
walked off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she
wished she had been more forgiving, and when Meg and her mother went upstai=
rs,
she felt lonely and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and ar=
med
with a book to return, went o=
ver to
the big house.
"Is Mr. Laurence in?&qu=
ot;
asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs.
"Yes, Miss, but I don't
believe he's seeable just yet."
"Why not? Is he ill?&qu=
ot;
"La, no Miss, but he's =
had
a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, whi=
ch
vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him."
"Where is Laurie?'
"Shut up in his room, a=
nd
he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become =
of
the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it."
"I'll go and see what t=
he
matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."
Up went Jo, and knocked smar=
tly
on the door of Laurie's little study.
"Stop that, or I'll open
the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman in a threatening
tone.
Jo immediately knocked again.
The door flew open, and in she bounced before Laurie could recover from his
surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to mana=
ge
him, assumed a contrite expre=
ssion,
and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgi=
ve
me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have.=
"
"It's all right. Get up,
and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition.
"Thank you, I will. Cou=
ld I
ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind."
"I've been shaken, and I
won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
"Who did it?" dema=
nded
Jo.
"Grandfather. If it had
been anyone else I'd have..." And the injured youth finished his sente=
nce
by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
"That's nothing. I often
shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly.
"Pooh! You're a girl, a=
nd
it's fun, but I'll allow no man to shake me!"
"I don't think anyone w=
ould
care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now. Why
were you treated so?"
"Just because I wouldn't
say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course=
I
wasn't going to break my word."
"Couldn't you satisfy y=
our
grandpa in any other way?"
"No, he would have the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of=
the
scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue,
and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for
fear I should forget myself."
"It wasn't nice, but he=
's
sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I'll help you."
"Hanged if I do! I'm not
going to be lectured and pummelled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic.=
I
was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it again,=
when
I wasn't in the wrong."
"He didn't know that.&q=
uot;
"He ought to trust me, =
and
not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo, he's got to learn that I'm abl=
e to
take care of myself, and don't need anyone's apron string to hold on by.&qu=
ot; "What
pepper pots you are! " sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this
affair?"
"Well, he ought to beg
pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the fuss's about.&q=
uot;
"Bless you! He won't do
that."
"I won't go down till he
does."
"Now, Teddy, be sensibl=
e.
Let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the
use of being melodramatic?"
"I don't intend to stay
here long, anyway. I'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when Gra=
ndpa
misses me he'll come round fast enough." "I dare say, but you oug=
ht
not to go and worry him."
"Don't preach. I'll go =
to
Washington and see Brooke. It's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the
troubles."
"What fun you'd have! I
wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting her part of mentor in
lively visions of martial life at the capital.
"Come on, then! Why not?
You go and surprise your father, and
I'll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let's do it, Jo. We'll
leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money
enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your father."
For a moment Jo looked as if=
she
would agree, for wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of
care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended
temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. H=
er
eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on t=
he
old house opposite, and she s=
hook
her head with sorrowful decision.
"If I was a boy, we'd r=
un
away together, and have a capital time, but as I'm a miserable girl, I must=
be
proper and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."
"That's the fun of
it," began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him and was possessed =
to
break out of bounds in some way.
"Hold your tongue!"
cried Jo, covering her ears. "`Prunes and prisms' are my doom, and I m=
ay
as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear things =
that
make me skip to think of."
"I know Meg would
wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit," began
Laurie insinuatingly.
"Bad boy, be quiet! Sit
down and think of your own sins, don't
go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shakin=
g,
will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously. "Yes, but you won't do
it," answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but felt that his outraged
dignity must be appeased first. "If I can manage the yo=
ung
one, I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laur=
ie
bent over a railroad map with his head propped up on both hands. "Come in!" And Mr.
Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.=
"It's only me, Sir, com=
e to
return a book," she said blandly,&nbs=
p;
as she entered. "Want any more?" a=
sked
the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it. "Yes, please. I like old
Sam so well, I think I'll try the second volume," returned Jo, hoping =
to
propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswell's Johnson, as he had
recommended that lively work. The shaggy eyebrows unbent a
little as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literat=
ure
was placed. Jo skipped up, and sitting on the top step, affected to be
searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the =
dangerous
object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brew=
ing
in her mind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced
round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward on t=
he
floor. "What has that boy been
about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he
acted when he came home. I can't get a word from him, and when I threatened=
to shake
the truth out of him he bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room.&q=
uot; "He did wrong, but we
forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to anyone," began Jo
reluctantly. "That won't do. He shall
not shelter himself behind a promise from you softhearted girls. If he's do=
ne
anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it,=
Jo.
I won't be kept in the dark." Mr. Laurence looked so alarm=
ing
and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but =
she
was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the pat=
h,
so she had to stay and brave it out. "Indeed, Sir, I cannot
tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punis=
hed
quite enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it
will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don't. It was partly my fau=
lt,
but it's all right now. So let's forget it, and talk about the RAMBLER or
something pleasant." "Hang the RAMBLER! Come
down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done
anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to h=
im,
I'll thrash him with my own hands." The threat sounded awful, bu=
t did
not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a
finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She
obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without b=
etraying
Meg or forgetting the truth. "Hum... ha... well, if =
the
boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgi=
ve
him. He's a stubborn fellow and hard to manage," said Mr. Laurence, ru=
bbing
up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing t=
he
frown from his brow with an air of relief. "So am I, but a kind wo=
rd
will govern me when all the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seem=
ed
to get out of one scrape only to fall into another. "You think I'm not kind=
to
him, hey?" was the sharp answer. "Oh, dear no, Sir. You =
are
rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your
patience. Don't you think you are?" Jo was determined to have it=
out
now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her b=
old
speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his
spectacles onto the table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, "You're
right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, a=
nd I
know how it will end, if we go on so." "I'll tell you, he'll r=
un
away." Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made. She meant =
to
warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be m=
ore
forebearing with the lad. Mr. Laurence's ruddy face
changed suddenly, and he sat down, <=
/span>with
a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his tab=
le.
It was Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and married against =
the
imperious old man's will. Jo fancied her remembered and regretted the past,=
and
she wished she had held her tongue. "He won't do it unless =
he
is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of
studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut,=
so
if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys and look among the ships
bound for India." She laughed as she spoke, and
Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
taking the whole as a joke. "You hussy, how dare you
talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your proper bringing up?
Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are, yet we can't do without t=
hem,"
he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy do=
wn
to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy
airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it." "He won't come, Sir. He
feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell. I
think the shaking hurt his feelings very much." Jo tried to look pathetic but
must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was
won. "I'm sorry for that, and
ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the dickens does the
fellow expect?" And the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his o=
wn
testiness. "If I were you, I'd wri=
te
him an apology, Sir. He says he won't come down till he has one, and talks
about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make =
him
see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes f=
un,
and this was is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his
duty." Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp
look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, bu=
t I
don't mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and=
let
us have done with this nonsense." The note was written in the
terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep ins=
ult.
Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to sli=
p the
apology under Laurie's door, advising him through the keyhole to be submiss=
ive,
decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked
again, she left the note to do its work,&n=
bsp;
and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the
banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous
expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get
blown up?" he added, laughing. "No, he was pretty mild=
, on
the whole." "AH! I got it all round=
. Even
you cast me off over there, a=
nd I
felt just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically. "Don't talk that way, t=
urn
over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy,
my son." "I keep turning over new
leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks, and I make so m=
any
beginnings there never will be an end," he said dolefully. "Go and eat your dinner,
you'll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry," a=
nd
Jo whisked out at the front door after that. "That's a `label' on my=
`sect',"
answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully
with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly re=
spectful
in manner all the rest of the day. Everyone thought the matter
ended and the little cloud blown over, but the mischief was done, for though
others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, bu=
t she
thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her sister'=
s desk
for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, `Mrs. John
Brooke', whereat she groaned
tragically and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had haste=
ned
the evil day for her. Like sunshine after a storm =
were
the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. M=
arch
began to talk or returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie=
on
the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first,
and in time with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once
active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing a=
bout
the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white
hands cooking delicate messes for `the dear', while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebra=
ted
her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on =
her
sisters to accept. As Christmas approached, the
usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the
family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, =
in
honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, =
and
would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his
own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were
considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which we=
re
rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together. Several days of unusually mi=
ld
weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah `felt in her bone=
s'
that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true
prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand
success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, t=
hen
Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's
gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the windo=
w to
behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best=
to
be worthy of the name, for like elves they had worked by night and conjured=
up
a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned =
with
holly, bearing a basket of fr=
uit
and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rain=
bow
of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from=
her
lips on a pink paper streamer. THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH God bless you, dear Queen Be=
ss! May
nothing you dismay, But healt=
h and
peace and happiness Be yours, this Christmas day. Here's fruit to feed our =
busy
bee, And flowers for her nose. Here's music for her pianee, An afghan for her toes, A portrait of Joanna, see, By
Raphael No. 2, Who laboured w=
ith
great industry To make it fair and true. Accept a ribbon red, I beg, =
For
Madam Purrer's tail, And ice =
cream
made by lovely Peg, A Mont Bl=
anc in
a pail. Their dearest love my makers
laid Within my breast of snow. Accept it, and the Alpine maid, From Laurie =
and
from Jo. How Beth laughed when she saw
it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous
speeches Jo made as she presented them. "I'm so full of happine=
ss,
that if Father was only here, I couldn't hold one drop more," said Bet=
h,
quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest a=
fter
the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the
`Jungfrau' had sent her. "So am I," added J=
o,
slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired UNDINE AND SINTRAM. "I'm sure I am,"
echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which h=
er
mother had given her in a pretty frame. "Of course I am!"
cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first sild dress, for Mr.
Laurence had insisted on giving it. "How can I be otherwise?" said
Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's
smiling face, and her hand carressed the brooch made of gray and golden,
chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her brea=
st. Now and then, in this workad=
ay
world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a com=
fort
it is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could o=
nly
hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped=
his
head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and
uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed excitem=
ent
and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he on=
ly
said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present =
for
the March family." Before the words were well o=
ut
of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall
man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tr=
ied
to say something and couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody =
seemed
to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a w=
ord. Mr. March became invisible in
the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fa=
inting
away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kiss=
ed
Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the
dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and c=
ried
over her father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the fir=
st
to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush! Rememb=
er
Beth." But it was too late. The stu=
dy
door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put
strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her father's arm=
s.
Never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed,
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO<=
/a>
washing away the bitterness of the=
past
and leaving only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic, =
but
a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behi=
nd
the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down =
when
she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to
thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke
suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he
precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which =
they
did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.
Mr. March told how he had lo=
nged
to surprise them, and how, wh=
en the
fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor, to take advantage of =
it,
how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and
upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and after a gl=
ance
at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inqui=
ring
lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently no=
dded
her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something =
to
eat. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine
and beef tea, muttering to he=
rself
as she slammed the door, "I hate estimable young men with brown
eyes!"
There never was such a Chris=
tmas
dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Han=
nah
sent him up, stuffed, browned=
, and
decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one's mouth, likewise t=
he
jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned o=
ut
well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, "For my mind was that flustered,
Mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey =
with
raisins, let alone bilin' of it in a cloth."
Mr. Laurence and his grandson
dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's
infinite amusement. Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the
table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a=
little
fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sang songs, `reminisced', as the old folks say=
, and
had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls w=
ould
not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathe=
red,
the happy family sat together round the fire.
"Just a year ago we were
groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?&qu=
ot;
asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation abo=
ut
many things.
"Rather a pleasant year=
on
the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself =
on
having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
"I think it's been a pr=
etty
hard one," observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring with
thoughtful eyes.
"i'm glad it's over,
because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who sat on her father's k=
nee.
"Rather a rough road for
you to travel, my little pilgrims, <=
/span>especially
the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are in a f=
air
way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March, looking with fatherly
satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him. "How do you know? Did
Mother tell you?' asked Jo. "Not much. Straws show
which way the wind blows, and I've made several discoveries today." "Oh, tell us what they
are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him. "Here is one." And
taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the
roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spot=
s on
the palm. "I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and =
your
first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much
prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt
offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something
better than blisters, and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers
will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my de=
ar, I value the womanly skill which ke=
eps
home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud =
to
shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be aske=
d to
give it away." If Meg had wanted a reward f=
or
hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her fathe=
r's
hand and the approving smile he gave her. "What about Jo? Please =
say
something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to
me," said Beth in her father's ear. He laughed and looked across=
at
the tall girl who sat opposite, with
and unusually mild expression in her face. "In spite of the curly
crop, I don't see the `son Jo' whom I left a year ago," said Mr. March.
"I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neat=
ly,
and neither whistles, talks s=
lang,
nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale just
now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown
gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and
takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. =
I rather
miss my wild girl, but if I get a strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in h=
er
place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobe=
red
our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anyth=
ing
beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl
sent me." Jo's keen eyes were rather d=
im
for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received =
her
father's praise, feeling that=
she
did deserve a portion of it. "Now, Beth," said =
Amy,
longing for her turn, but ready to wait. "There's so little of h=
er,
I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she =
is
not so shy as she used to be," began their father cheerfully. But
recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly,
with her cheek against his own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll =
keep
you so, please God." After a minute's silence, he
looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a ca=
ress
of the shining hair... "I observed that Amy to=
ok
drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg
her place tonight, and has waited on every on with patience and good humor.=
I
also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not
even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she h=
as
learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided =
to
try and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay figure=
s. I
am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue mad=
e by
her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for
making life beautiful to herself and others." "What are you thinking =
of,
Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ri=
ng. "I read in PILGRIM'S
PROGRESS today how, after many troubles,&n=
bsp;
christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies b=
loomed
all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they we=
nt
on to their journey's end," answered Beth, adding, as she slipped out of her
father's arms and went to the instrument, "It's singing time now, and I
want to be in my old place. I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy w=
hich
the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for Father, because he likes the
verses." So, sitting at the dear litt=
le
piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had never
thought to hear again, sang t=
o her
own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for =
her. He that is down need fear no fall,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He that is low no pride. He that is
humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.
I am content with what I hav=
e, Little be it, or much. And, Lord!
Contentment still I crave, Be=
cause
Thou savest such.
Fulness to them a burden is,=
That go on pilgrimage. Here little=
, and
hereafter bliss, Is best from=
age
to age!
Like bees swarming after the=
ir
queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting
everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in=
a fair
way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's
sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and
then `to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their
happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though non=
e confessed
the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expressi=
on,
as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to=
shake
her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg was
absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was
mentioned. Amy said, "Everyone seemed waiting for something, and could=
n't
settle down, which was queer,=
since
Father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered why their neigh=
bors
didn't run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the aftern=
oon,
and seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic
fit, for he fell down on one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his ha=
ir, and
clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told h=
im
to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his
handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
"What does the goose
mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to look unconscious.
"He's showing you how y=
our
John will go on by-and-by. To=
uchin,
isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.
"Don't say my John, it
isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if t=
hey
sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague me, Jo, I've told you I
don't care much about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are =
all
to be friendly, and go on as before."
"We can't, for somethin=
g has
been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so d=
oes
Mother. You are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from
me. I don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it
was all settled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over
quickly," said Jo pettishly.
"I can't say anything t=
ill
he speaks, and he won't, because Father said I was too young," began M=
eg,
bending over her work with a queer little smile, which suggested that she d=
id
not quite agree with her father on that point.
"If he did speak, you
wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own =
way,
instead of giving a good, decided no."
"I'm not so silly and w=
eak
as you think. I know just what I should say, for I've planned it all, so I
needn't be taken unawares. There's no knowing what may happen, and I wished=
to be
prepared."
Jo couldn't help smiling at =
the
important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming=
as
the pretty color varying in her cheeks.
"Would you mind telling=
me
what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.
"Not at all. You are
sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidente, and my experience will be
useful to you by-and-by, perh=
aps,
in your own affairs of this sort."
"Don't mean to have any.
It's fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doi=
ng
it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at the thought.
"I think not, if you li=
ked
anyone very much, and he liked you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and
glanced out at the lane where she had often seen lovers walking together in=
the
summer twilight.
"I thought you were goi=
ng
to tell your speech to that man," said Jo, rudely shortening her siste=
r's
little reverie.
"Oh, I should merely sa=
y,
quite calmly and decidedly, `Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I
agree with Father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at prese=
nt,
so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were."
"Hum, that's stiff and =
cool
enough! I don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfie=
d if
you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, ra=
ther
than hurt his feelings."
"No, I won't. I shall t=
ell
him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity."=
;
Meg rose as she spoke, and w=
as
just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her=
fly
into her seat and begin to sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing=
that
particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change,=
and
when someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was
anything but hospitable.
"Good afternoon. I came=
to
get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today,"
said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from one tellta=
le
face to the other.
"It's very well, he's in
the rack. I'll get him, and tell it you are here." And having jumbled =
her
father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the r=
oom
to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant
she vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring...
"Mother will like to see
you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."
"Don't go. Are you afra=
id
of me, Margaret?" And Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she m=
ust
have done something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her
forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprise=
d to
find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear
friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and
said gratefully...
"How can I be afraid wh=
en
you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it."=
;
"Shall I tell you
how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, a=
nd
looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart bega=
n to
flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
"Oh no, please don't, I=
'd
rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking fright=
ened
in spite of her denial.
"I won't trouble you. I
only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much,
dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
This was the moment for the
calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it. She forgot every word of it, h=
ung
her head, and answered, "I don't know," so softly that John had to
stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was wo=
rth
the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the pl=
ump
hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try a=
nd find
out? I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I
learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not."
"I'm too young,"
faltered Meg, wondering was she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
"I'll wait, and in the
meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson,
dear?"
"Not if I chose to learn
it, but. . ."
"Please choose to learn,
Meg. I love you to teach, and this is easier than German," broke in Jo=
hn,
getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her =
face
as he bent to look into it.
His tone was properly
beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merr=
y as
well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doub=
t of
his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry c=
ame
into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the bes=
t of
little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt
excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious
impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go aw=
ay and
let me be!"
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if=
his
lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen=
Meg
in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
"Do you really mean
that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.
"Yes, I do. I don't wan=
t to
be worried about such things. Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd
rather not."
"Mayn't I hope you'll
change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait and say nothing till you have had more
time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you."
"Don't think of me at a=
ll.
I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in
trying her lover's patience and her own power. He was grave and pale now, a=
nd
looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither
slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as they did. He just stood =
looking
at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spi=
te
of herself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had n=
ot
come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
The old lady couldn't resist=
her
longing to see her nephew, fo=
r she
had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of=
the
house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did
surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, a=
nd
Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
"Bless me, what's all
this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from t=
he
pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.
"It's Father's friend. =
I'm
so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a
lecture now.
"That's evident,"
returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is Father's friend saying=
to
make you look like a peony? There's mischief going on, and I insist upon
knowing what it is," with another rap.
"We were only talking. =
Mr.
Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and =
the
umbrella were safely out of the house.
"Brooke? That boy's tut=
or?
Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong messag=
e in
one of your Father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and =
accepted
him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
"Hush! He'll hear. Shan=
't I
call Mother?" said Meg, much troubled.
"Not yet. I've somethin=
g to
say to you, and I must free my mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry =
this
Cook? If you do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that,=
and be a sensible girl," said=
the
old lady impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed in
perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest peop=
le,
and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, espe=
cially
when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John
Brooke, she would probably have declared she couldn't think of it, but as s=
he
was preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind =
that
she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and be=
ing
already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit. "I
shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to anyo=
ne
you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.
"Highty-tighty! Is that=
the
way you take my advice, Miss? You'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've
tried love in a cottage and found it a failure."
"It can't be a worse one
than some people find in big houses," retorted Meg.
Aunt March put on her glasses
and took a look at the girl, =
for
she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so
brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to love =
him,
if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little
pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my
dear, be reasonable and take =
my
advice. I mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by ma=
king
a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. I=
t's your
duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you."
"Father and Mother don't
think so. They like John though he is poor."
"Your parents, my dear,
have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies."
"I'm glad of it,"
cried Meg stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, b=
ut
went on with her lecture. "This Rook is poor and hasn't got any rich
relations, has he?"
"No, but he has many wa=
rm
friends."
"You can't live on frie=
nds,
try it and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?"=
"Not yet. Mr. Laurence =
is
going to help him."
"That won't last long.
James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not to be depended on. So you
intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on worki=
ng
harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by mind=
ing
me and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg."
"I couldn't do better i=
f I
waited half my life! John is good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's
willing to work and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave. Everyone l=
ikes
and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor
and young and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her
earnestness.
"He knows you have got =
rich
relations, child. That's the secret of his liking, I suspect."
"Aunt March, how dare y=
ou
say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I won't listen to you a
minute if you talk so," cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything b=
ut
the injustice of the old lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for
money, any more than I would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I=
'm not
afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with
him because he loves me, and I..."
Meg stopped there, rememberi=
ng
all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind, that she had told `her Jo=
hn'
to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, f=
or
she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and
something in the girl's happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both
sad and sour.
"Well, I wash my hands =
of
the whole affair! You are a willful child, and you've lost more than you kn=
ow
by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop. I'm disappointed in you, and have=
n't
spirits to see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are =
married.
Your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever.&q=
uot;
And slamming the door in Meg=
's
face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl=
's
courage with her, for when le=
ft
alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before she
could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said=
all
in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending =
me,
and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little bit."
"I didn't know how much
till she abused you," began Meg.
"And I needn't go away,=
but
my stay and be happy, may I, dear?"
Here was another fine chance=
to
make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doi=
ng
either, and disgraced herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, &q=
uot;Yes,
John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt
March's departure, Jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parl=
or
door, and hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied
expression, saying to herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, a=
nd
that affair is settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh ove=
r it."
But poor Jo never got her la=
ugh,
for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her the=
re,
staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult o=
ver a
fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an
objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid enemy
serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister enthroned upon h=
is
knee and wearing an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sor=
t of
gasp, as if a cold shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an
unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd =
sound
the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, b=
ut
`that man', as Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed
the astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"
That was adding insult to
injury, it was altogether too much,
and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished witho=
ut a
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically =
as
she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is
acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"
Mr. and Mrs. March left the =
room
with speed, and casting herself upon the be, Jo cried and scolded tempestuo=
usly
as she told the awful news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however,
considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little com=
fort
from them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her tro=
ubles
to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went o=
n in
the parlor that afternoon, but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet =
Mr.
Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he ple=
aded
his suit, told his plans, and
persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.
The tea bell rang before he =
had
finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he pro=
udly
took her in to supper, both l=
ooking
so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much
impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth beamed at them from a
distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tend=
er
satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling =
them
as `unworldly as a pair of babies'. No one ate much, but everyone looked ve=
ry
happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first roma=
nce
of the family began there.
"You can't say nothing
pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said Amy, trying to decide h=
ow
she would group the lovers in a sketch she was planning to make. "No, =
I'm
sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems a year
ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far above such
common things as bread and butter.
"The joys come close up=
on
the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun," said
Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now and then, a year full of
events. This has been such a one, but it ends well, after all."
"Hope the next will end
better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to see Meg absorbed in a
stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few persons very dearly and dreade=
d to
have their affection lost or lessened in any way. "I hope the third ye=
ar
from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I live to work out my
plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if everything had become
possible to him now.
"Doesn't it seem very l=
ong
to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding.
"I've got so much to le=
arn
before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me," answered Meg, w=
ith
a sweet gravity in her face never seen there before.
"You have only to wait,=
I
am to do the work," said John beginning his labors by picking up Meg's
napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to shake her head, and then say =
to
herself with an air of relief as the front door banged, "Here comes
Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible conversation."
But Jo was mistaken, for Lau=
rie
came prancing in, overflowing with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-loo=
king
bouquet for `Mrs. John Brooke', and evidently laboring under the delusion t=
hat
the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
"I knew Brooke would ha=
ve
it all his own way, he always does,
for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done thou=
gh
the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
congratulations.
"Much obliged for that
recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future and invite you to my
wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all
mankind, even his mischievous pupil.
"I'll come if I'm at the
ens of the earth, for the sight of Jo's face alone on that occasion would be
worth a long journey. You don't look festive, ma'am, what's the matter?&quo=
t;
asked Laurie, following her i=
nto a
corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.
"I don't approve of the
match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against
it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how hard it is for me to g=
ive
up Meg," she continued with a little quiver in her voice. "You do=
n't
give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.
"It can never be the sa=
me
again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed Jo.
"You've got me, anyhow.=
I'm
not good for much, I know, but I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my li=
fe.
Upon my word I will!" And Laurie meant what he said.
"I know you will, and I=
'm
ever so much obliged. You are always a great comfort to me, Teddy,"
returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands. "Well, now, don't be dismal,
there's a good fellow. It's all right you see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly
round and get settled immediately, Grandpa will attend to him, and it will =
be
very jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times aft=
er she
is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abro=
ad
on some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"
"I rather think it woul=
d,
but there's no knowing what may happen in three years," said Jo
thoughtfully.
"That's true. Don't you
wish you could take a look forward and wee where we shall all be then? I
do," returned Laurie.
"I think not, for I mig=
ht
see something sad, and everyone looks so happy now, I don't believe they co=
uld
be much improved." And Jo's eyes went slowly round the room, brighteni=
ng
as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.
Father and Mother sat togeth=
er,
quietly reliving the first chapter of the romance which for them began some
twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful
world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the=
little
artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old
friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power =
to
lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low
seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie, leaning =
on
the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with=
his
friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them
both.
So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, =
Beth,
and Amy. Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given the
first act of the domestic drama called LITTLE WOMEN.
In order that we may start
afresh and go to Meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin wi=
th a
little gossip about the Marches. And here let me premise that if any of the=
elders
think there is too much `lovering' in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not
afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
"What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
dashing young neighbor over the way?"
The three years that have pa=
ssed
have brought but few changes to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr.
March safely at home, busy with his books and the small parish which found =
in
him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wi=
sdom
that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind `brother',
the piety that blossoms into character,&nb=
sp;
making it august and lovely.
These attributes, in spite of
poverty and the strict integrity which shut him out from the more worldly
successes, attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet h=
erbs
draw bees, and as naturally h=
e gave
them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no
bitter drop. Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at he=
art
as they, thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to
him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners tol=
d their
sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men
found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions
than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautif=
ul
and true, although `they wouldn't pay'.
To outsiders the five energe=
tic
women seemed to rule the house, and
so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books,=
was
still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him =
the
busy, anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the
truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father. The girls gave their hearts =
into
their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parent=
s,
who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew wi=
th
their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which ble=
sses
life and outlives death. Mrs. March is as brisk and
cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so
absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded
`boys' and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visit=
s. John Brooke did his duty
manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return.=
He
received no stars or bars, bu=
t he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are v=
ery
precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his discharge, =
he
devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home=
for
Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he
refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of book=
keeper,
feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by
running any risks with borrowed money. Meg had spent the time in
working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewife=
ly
arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier. She had her
girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way=
in
which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner,=
and
Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit wi=
th her
own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and
discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor
John had put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together =
in the
twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautif=
ul
and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest,
happiest girl in Christendom. Jo never went back to Aunt
March, for the old lady took such a fancy to AMy that she bribed her with t=
he
offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the s=
ake
of this advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave=
her
mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo mean=
time
devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the
fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the =
rosy,
healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and b=
usy
with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the hou=
se,
long before those who loved her most had learned to know it. As long as THE SPREAD EAGLE =
paid
her a dollar a column for her `rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a
woman of means, and spun her little romances diligently. But great plans
fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in =
the garret
held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to p=
lace
the name of March upon the roll of fame. Laurie, having dutifully gon=
e to
college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest
possible manner to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money,
manners, much talent, and the
kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other
people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoiled, and probably
would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a
talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in=
his
success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and
last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls lo=
ved,
admired, and believed in him with all their hearts. Being only `a glorious human
boy', of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimen=
tal,
or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked sla=
ng,
and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as hi=
gh
spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always mana=
ged
to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistib=
le
power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather pr=
ided
himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic
accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and
vanquished enemies. The `men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of the
girls, who never wearied of t=
he
exploits of `our fellows', and were frequently allowed to bask in the smile=
s of
these great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him. Amy especially enjoyed this =
high
honor, and became quite a belle among them, for her ladyship early felt and
learned to use the gift of fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was =
too
much absorbed in her private and particular John to care for any other lord=
s of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how Amy
dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element, and fou=
nd
it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phra=
ses,
and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed for
young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her,
though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or=
two
at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the
`Dovecote'. That was the name of the lit=
tle
brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christ=
ened
it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who `went on toge=
ther
like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'. It was a tiny
house, with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket
handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, an=
d a
profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present the fountain was
represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slopbowl, the
shrubbery consisted of several young larches, undecided whether to live or die, =
and
the profusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show w=
here
seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy b=
ride
saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it w=
as
fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whol=
e,
the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit, and the kitc=
hen
stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants =
and
china pell-mell into the coalbin. But once get used to these slight blemish=
es
and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presi=
ded over
the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, =
but
simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flower=
s in
the bay window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from
friendly hands and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought. I don't think the Parian Psy=
che
Laurie gave lost any of its beauty because John put up the bracket it stood
upon, that any upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more=
gracefully
than Amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided w=
ith
good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her mot=
her
put away Meg's few boxes, bar=
rels,
and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new kitchen never cou=
ld
have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a
dozen times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute `Mis.
Brooke came home'. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so
rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to =
last
till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of
dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china. People who hire all these th=
ings
done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beauti=
fied
if loving hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that everythi=
ng in
her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor ta=
ble,
was eloquent of home love and tender forethought. What happy times they had
planning together, what solemn shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they
made, and what shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. =
In his
love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a m=
uch
of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly vi=
sits
some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a ba=
g of
remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to piece=
s at
the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a sweeper =
that
picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the sk=
in off
one's hands, infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the finge=
rs
of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank fo=
r odd
pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam w=
ith
every prospect of exploding in the process. In vain Meg begged him to st=
op.
John laughed at him, and Jo called him `Mr. Toodles'. He was possessed with=
a
mania for patronizing Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnis=
hed
forth. So each week beheld some fresh absurdity. Everything was done at last,
even to Amy's arranging different colored soaps to match the different colo=
red
rooms, and Beth's setting the table for the first meal. "Are you satisfied? Doe=
s it
seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?" asked
Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm,
for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever. "Yes, Mother, perfectly
satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I can't talk about it,"
with a look that was far better than words. "If she only had a serv=
ant
or two it would be all right," said Amy, coming out of the parlor, whe=
re
she had been trying to decide whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the
whatnot or the mantlepiece. "Mother and I have talk=
ed that
over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so lit=
tle
to do that with Lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall
only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answe=
red Meg
tranquilly. "Sallie Moffat has
four," began Amy. "If Meg had four, the h=
ouse
wouldn't hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the
garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving
the last polish to the door handles. "Sallie isn't a poor ma=
n's
wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and Jo=
hn
begin humbly, but I have a feeling that there will be quite as much happine=
ss
in the little house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls
like Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and goss=
ip.
When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or =
get
torn, so that i might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got heartily
sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief." "Why didn't you go into=
the
kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she does to amuse herself, though t=
hey
never turn out well and the servants laugh at her," said Meg. "I did after a while, n=
ot
to `mess' but to learn of Hannah how things should be done, that my servants
need not laugh at me. It was play then, but there came a time when I was tr=
uly
grateful that I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome
food for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to =
hire
help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now =
will
be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer man, for the mistress of a
house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wish=
es
to be well and honestly served." "Yes, Mother, I'm sure =
of
that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the
best of women will hold forth upon the all absorbing subject of house keepi=
ng.
"Do you know I like this room most of all in my baby house," added
Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-sto=
red linen
closet. Beth was there, laying the s=
nowy
piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting over the goodly array. All three
laughed as Meg spoke, for that
linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married `that Bro=
oke'
she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a quandary
when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She never bro=
ke
her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at la=
st
devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's m=
amma,
was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and ta=
ble
linen, and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the
secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt March tr=
ied
to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but t=
he old-fashioned
pearls long promised to the first bride. "That's a housewifely t=
aste
which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with s=
ix
sheets, but she had finger bowls for company and that satisfied her," =
said
Mrs. March, patting the damask
tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness. "I haven't a single fin=
ger
bowl, but this is a setout that will last me all my days, Hannah says."
And Meg looked quite contented, as
well she might. A tall, broad-shouldered you=
ng
fellow, with a cropped head, a felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came
tramping down the road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without
stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out a=
nd a
hearty . .. "Here I am, Mother! Yes,
it's all right." The last words were in answe=
r to
the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly questioning look which the hands=
ome
eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a mothe=
rly kiss. "For Mrs. John Brooke, =
with
the maker's congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refres=
hing
spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a s=
ingle
lady." As Laurie spoke, he delivere=
d a
brown paper parcel to Meg, pi=
lled
Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's bib pinafore, and fell into an attitude =
of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to
talk. "Where is John?" a=
sked
Meg anxiously. "Stopped to get the lic=
ense
for tomorrow, ma'am." "Which side won the last
match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in ma=
nly
sports despite her nineteen years. "Ours, of course. Wish
you'd been there to see." "How is the lovely Miss
Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile. "More cruel than ever.
Don't you see how I'm pining away?" And Laurie gave his broad chest a
sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh. "What's the last joke? =
Undo
the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying the knobby parcel with
curiosity. "It's a useful thing to
have in the house in case of fire or thieves," observed Laurie, as a
watchman's rattle appeared, a=
mid
the laughter of the girls. "Any time when John is =
away
and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing that out of the front window, =
and
it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" And
Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.=
"There's gratitude for =
you!
And speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank Hannah f=
or
saving your wedding cake from destruction. I saw it going into your house a=
s I
came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, =
for
it looked like a remarkably plummy one." "I wonder if you will e=
ver
grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a matronly tone. "I'm doing my best, ma'=
am,
but can't get much higher, I'm afraid,&nbs=
p;
as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," =
responded
the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.=
"I suppose it would be
profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as I'm
tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment," he added presently. "Mother and I are going=
to
wait for John. There are some last things to settle," said Meg, bustli=
ng
away. "Beth and I are going o=
ver
to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for tomorrow," added Amy, tying a
picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much=
as
anybody. "Come, Jo, don't desert=
a
fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I can't get home without help. Do=
n't
take off your apron, whatever=
you
do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his feeble
steps. "Now, Teddy, I want to =
talk
seriously to you about tomorrow," began Jo, as they strolled away
together. "You must promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks,=
and
spoil our plans." "Not a prank." "And don't say funny th=
ings
when we ought to be sober." "I never do. You are the
one for that." "And I implore you not =
to
look at me during the ceremony. I shall certainly laugh if you do." "You won't see me, you'=
ll
be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect.&q=
uot; "I never cry unless for
some great affliction." "Such as fellows going =
to
college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with suggestive laugh. "Don't be a peacock. I =
only
moaned a trifle to keep the girls company." "Exactly. I say, Jo, =
how
is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?" "Very. Why, have you got
into a scrape and want to know how he'll take it?" asked Jo rather
sharply. "Now, Jo, do you think =
I'd
look your mother in the face and say `All right', if it wasn't?" And
Laurie stopped short, with an injured air. "No, I don't." "Then don't go and be
suspicious. I only want some money," said Laurie, walking on again,
appeased by her hearty tone. "You spend a great deal,
Teddy." "Bless you, I don't spe=
nd
it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone before I know it." "You are so generous and
kind-hearted that you let people borrow,&n=
bsp;
and can't say `No' to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did=
for
him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you," s=
aid
Jo warmly. "Oh, he made a mountain=
out
of a molehill. You wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to de=
ath
just for want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps,
would you?" "Of course not, but I d=
on't
see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new
hat every time you come home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period, but
every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion t=
o be
hideous, to make your head lo=
ok
like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square=
-toed
boots. If it was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as t=
he
other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it." Laurie threw back his head, =
and
laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walk=
ed
on it, which insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the=
advantages
of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuff=
ed
it into his pocket. "Don't lecture any more,
there's a good soul! I have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy
myself when I come home. I'll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow =
and
be a satisfaction to my friends." "I'll leave you in peac=
e if
you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to be=
ing
seen with a person who looks like a young prize fighter," observed Jo
severely. "This unassuming style
promotes study, that's why we adopt it," returned Laurie, who certainl=
y could
not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly cr=
op
to the demand for quarterinch-long stubble. "By the way, Jo, I think
that little Parker is really getting desperate about Amy. He talks of her
constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd
better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in=
a
confidential, elder brotherly=
tone,
after a minute's silence. "Of course he had. We d=
on't
want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us, what =
are
the children thinking of?" And Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy=
and
little Parker were not yet in their teens. "It's a fast age, and I
don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are a mere infant, but you'll =
go
next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head =
over
the degeneracy of the times. "Don't be alarmed. I'm =
not
one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there
should always be one old maid in a family." "You won't give anyone a
chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance and a little more color t=
han
before in his sunburned face. "You won't show the soft side of your
character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident and can't help sho=
wing
that he likes it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw =
cold
water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."<=
o:p> "I don't like that sort=
of
thing. I'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful =
to
break up families so. Now don't say any more about it. Meg's wedding has tu=
rned
all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I do=
n't
wish to get cross, so let's change the subject." And Jo looked quite r=
eady
to fling cold water on the slightest provocation. Whatever his feelings might =
have
been, Laurie found a vent for them in a long low whistle and the fearful
prediction as they parted at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go
next." The June roses over the porch
were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their heart=
s in
the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite
flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> whispering to one another what the=
y had
seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spr=
ead,
some climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride,
others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in gar=
den,
porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest =
baby
bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress w=
ho
had loved and tended them so long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE=
Meg looked very like a rose
herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to blo=
om
into her face that day, makin=
g it
fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lac=
e,
nor orange flowers would she have. "I don't want a fashionable wedding,
but only those about me whom I love,
and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self."
So she made her wedding gown
herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish
heart. her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she w=
ore
were the lilies of the valley, which `her John' liked best of all the flowe=
rs
that grew.
"You do look just like =
our
own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it
wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy, surveying her with delight wh=
en
all was done.
"Then I am satisfied. B=
ut
please hug and kiss me, everyone, =
span>and
don't mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
today." And Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April fac=
es for
a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old.
"Now I'm going to tie
John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in
the study." And Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and t=
hen
to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smil=
es on
the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at t=
he
flight of the first bird from the nest.
As the younger girls stand
together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good =
time
to tell of a few changes which three years have wrought in their appearance,
for all are looking their best just now.
Jo's angles are much softene=
d,
she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has
lengthened into a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the t=
all figure.
There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and o=
nly
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today.
Beth has grown slender, pale,
and more quiet than ever. The beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them =
lies
an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the sh=
adow
of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and alwa=
ys
speaks hopefully of `being better soon'.
Amy is with truth considered
`the flower of the family', for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a
full-grown woman, not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm
called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of=
her
hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet
harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still
afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too
wide, and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to=
her
whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her
wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abun=
dant
than ever.
All three wore suits of thin
silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and
bosom, and all three looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted
girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the
sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood.
There were to be no ceremoni=
ous
performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so =
when
Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to
welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that=
had
fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upsta=
irs with
a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.
"Upon my word, here's a
state of things!" cried the old lady,=
taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of=
her
lavender moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the =
last
minute, child."
"I'm not a show, Aunty,=
and
no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care
what anyone says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little wedding just as=
I
like it. John, dear, here's your hammer." And away went Meg to help `t=
hat
man' in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didn't even say,
"Thank you," but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed=
his
little bride behind the folding door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk
out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
A crash, a cry, and a laugh =
from
Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's
upset the cake again!" caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over
when a flock of cousins arrived, and `the party came in', as Beth used to s=
ay
when a child.
"Don't let that young g=
iant
come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes," whispered the old =
lady
to Amy, as the rooms filled and Laurie's black head towered above the rest.=
"He has promised to be =
very
good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes," returned Amy,
and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning ca=
used
him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
There was no bridal processi=
on,
but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple t=
ook
their places under the green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if
loath to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only s=
eemed
to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom's hand trembl=
ed
visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her
husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her=
own
face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audi=
bly.
Jo did not cry, though she w=
as
very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the conscious=
ness
that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment=
and
emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's
shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of=
sunshine
touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
It wasn't at all the thing, =
I'm
afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, "The first k=
iss
for Marmee!" and turning, gave
it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked m=
ore
like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their privileges =
to
the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a
headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying
with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake
ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."
Everybody cleared up after t=
hat,
and said something brilliant, or
tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are lig=
ht.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, n=
or
was there an elaborate breakfast, =
span>but
a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and
Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and cof=
fee
were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried arou=
nd.
No one said anything, till La=
urie,
who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand a=
nd a
puzzled expression on his face.
"Has Jo smashed all the
bottles by accident?" he whispered,&n=
bsp;
"or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying=
about
loose this morning?"
"No, your grandfather
kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but Father p=
ut
away a little for Beth, and
dispatched the rest to the Soldier's Home. You know he thinks that wine sho=
uld
be used only in illness, and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters
will ever offer it to any young man under her roof."
Meg spoke seriously and expe=
cted
to see Laurie frown or laugh, but
he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous wa=
y,
"I like that! For I've seen enough harm done to wish other women would
think as you do."
"You are not made wise =
by
experience, I hope?" And there was an anxious accent in Meg's voice.
"No. I give you my word=
for
it. Don't think too well of me, either,
this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common=
as
water and almost as harmless, I don't care for it, but when a pretty girl
offers it, one doesn't like to refuse,&nbs=
p;
you see."
"But you will, for the =
sake
of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more
reason to call this the happiest day of my life."
A demand so sudden and so se=
rious
made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear =
than
self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all
costs, and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good.=
She
did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by
happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything
today."
Laurie certainly could not, =
and
with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I
promise, Mrs. Brooke!"
"I thank you, very, very
much."
"And I drink `long life=
to
your resolution', Teddy," cried Jo,&n=
bsp;
baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and =
beamed
approvingly upon him.
So the toast was drunk, the
pledge made and loyally kept in spite of many temptations, for with instinc=
tive
wisdom, the girls seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for w=
hich
he thanked them all his life.
After lunch, people strolled
about, by twos and threes, through the house and garden, enjoying the sunsh=
ine
without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together in the mi=
ddle
of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the=
finishing
touch to this unfashionable wedding.
"All the married people
take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife, as the Germans do,
while we bachelors and spinsters prance in couples outside!" cried Lau=
rie,
promenading down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill t=
hat
everyone else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, =
Aunt
and Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie Moffat, af=
ter
a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into the
ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March, for when the
stately old gentleman chass'ed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked=
her
cane under arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dan=
ce
about the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like
butterflies on a midsummer day.
Want of breath brought the
impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go.
"I wish you well, my de=
ar,
I heartily wish you well, but I think you'll be sorry for it," said Au=
nt
March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage,
"You've got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it."
"That is the prettiest
wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't see why, for there wasn't=
a
bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they d=
rove
away.
"Laurie, my lad, if you
ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to
help you, and I shall be perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, sett=
ling
himself in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning.
"I'll do my best to gra=
tify
you, Sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpin=
ned
the posy Jo had put in his buttonhole.
The little house was not far
away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John from=
the
old home to the new. When she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in=
her
dovecolored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about =
her
to say goodby, as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.=
"Don't feel that I am
separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving
John so much," she said, clinging to her mother, with full eyes for a
moment. "I shall come every day,
Father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I=
am
married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will
drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all f=
or
my happy wedding day. Goodby, goodby!"
They stood watching her, with
faces full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on=
her
husband's arm, with her hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brighte=
ning
her happy face--and so Meg's married life began.
It takes people a long time =
to
learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young =
men
and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation, for =
mistaking
enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful
audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the `mud-pie' business, and s=
he
devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such
taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and
profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a
bold attempt at poker sketching.
While this attack lasted, the
family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of burning w=
ood
pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alar=
ming
frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to=
bed
without a pail of water and the dinner bell at her door in case of fire.
Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the moulding
board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned =
the
cover of the sugar bucket, and
attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some time.
From fire to oil was a natur=
al
transition for burned fingers, and
Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her o=
ut
with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, produc=
ing
pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her
monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultur=
al
fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickn=
ess
in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of=
shipbuilding
and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy
boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo. Oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the w=
rong
place, meant Rembrandt. Buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens, and Tur=
ner
appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and pur=
ple clouds,
with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a bou=
y, a
sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next,
and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just =
evoked
from a coalbin. Softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the
likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's =
eyes
were pronounced `wonderfully fine'. A return to clay and plaster followed, =
and
ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled=
off
closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till
their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be
regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however,=
were brought to an abrupt close by=
an
untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a
time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one da=
y alarmed
by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping
wildly about the shed with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, whi=
ch
had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger=
she
was dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that =
her
knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one
artistic attempt, at least.
After this Amy subsided, til=
l a
mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood,=
for
picturesque studies, and sigh=
ing
for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book
`delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken
mullein stalk, or `a heavenly mass of clouds', that looked like a choice display =
of
featherbeds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river =
in
the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose
trying after `points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performan=
ce
is called.
If `genius is eternal patien=
ce',
as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute, for she
persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly
believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called `high ar=
t'.
She was learning, doing, and
enjoying other things, meanwhile, =
span>for
she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great a=
rtist.
Here she succeeded better, fo=
r she
was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make fri=
ends
everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls
are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody lik=
ed
her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what
was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and =
place,
and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to
court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."=
;
One of her weaknesses was a
desire to move in `our best society',
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> fashionable accomplishments, and e=
legant
manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate =
with
those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admir=
ing
what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoma=
n, she
cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportuni=
ty
came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded h=
er.
"My lady," as her
friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at
heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that
rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself f=
elt
in spite of external drawbacks.
"I want to ask a favor =
of
you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.
"Well, little girl, wha=
t is
it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still
remained `the baby'.
"Our drawing class brea=
ks
up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask t=
hem
out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridg=
e,
and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kin=
d to
me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am p=
oor,
yet they never made any difference."
"Why should they?"=
And
Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her `Maria Theresa a=
ir'.
"You know as well as I =
that
it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a d=
ear,
motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duck=
ling
turned out a swan, you know." And Amy smiled without bitterness, for s=
he possessed
a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoo=
thed
down her maternal pride as she asked, "Well, my swan, what is your
plan?"
"I should like to ask t=
he
girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they w=
ant
to see, a row on the river, p=
erhaps,
and make a little artistic fete for them."
"That looks feasible. W=
hat
do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that=
is
necessary, I suppose?"
"Oh, dear, no! We must =
have
cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls=
are
used to such things, and I wa=
nt my
lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living."
"How many young ladies =
are
there?" asked her mother, beginning to look sober.
"Twelve or fourteen in =
the
class, but I dare say they won't all come."
"Bless me, child, you w=
ill
have to charter an omnibus to carry them about."
"Why, Mother, how can y=
ou
think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I
shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce."
(Hannah's pronunciation of charabanc.)
"All of this will be
expensive, Amy."
"Not very. I've calcula=
ted
the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
"Don't you think, dear,
that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be
nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a chang=
e if
nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't
need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
"If I can't have it as I
like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfec=
tly
well, if you and the girls will help a little, and I don't see why I can't =
if
I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision which oppositi=
on
was apt to change into obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experie=
nce
was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to
learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had
not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.
"Very well, Amy, if your
heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an out=
lay
of money, time, and temper, I=
'll
say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'l=
l do
my best to help you."
"Thanks, Mother, you are
always so kind." And away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters.=
Meg
agreed at once, and promised to her aid, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons. But Jo
frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at firs=
t.
"Why in the world should
you spend your money, worry your family,&n=
bsp;
and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care =
a sixpence
for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal
woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupe," said =
Jo,
who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best =
mood
for social enterprises.
"I don't truckle, and I
hate being patronized as much as you do!" returned Amy indignantly, for
the two still jangled when such questions arose. "The girls do care for
me, and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and tale=
nt
among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care =
to
make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners a=
nd tastes.
I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go
through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That's not my way."
When Amy had whetted her ton=
gue
and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to
have common sense on her side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hat=
e of
conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found hers=
elf worsted
in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a go=
od
hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable tu=
rn.
Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs.
Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as `a nonsensical
business'.
The invitations were sent,
nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand
event. Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and
prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothi=
n'
would go well anywheres". This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic
machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was `Nil=
desperandum',
and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of =
all
obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well. The chicken
was tough, the tongue too salt, and
the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than=
Amy
expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outse=
t,
counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got a cold and took to her bed.
Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in suc=
h a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were unco=
mmonly
numerous, serious, and trying.
It it was not fair on Monday,
the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, and arrangement which aggravated =
Jo
and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that
undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a
little, shone a little, blew a
little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to
make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn,
hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that=
the
house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly
shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of wh=
at she
had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on
the walls with homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as
did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
The lunch looked charming, a=
nd
as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the
borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages
were promised, Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was abl=
e to
help Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable a=
s an
absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody a=
nd
everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with
anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive
away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the `cherry
bounce' and the broken bridge were her strong points.
Then came the hours of suspe=
nse,
during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied
like the weathercock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the
enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody cam=
e,
and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume =
the perishable
portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"No doubt about the wea=
ther
today, they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for
them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, =
but
in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her
interest like her cake was getting a little stale.
"I can't get any lobste=
rs,
so you will have to do without salad today," said Mr. March, coming in
half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.
"Use the chicken then, =
the
toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife.
"Hannah left it on the
kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, amy,&quo=
t;
added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats.
"Then I must have a
lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy decidedly.
"Shall I rush into town=
and
demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr.
"You'd come bringing it
home under your arm without any paper,&nbs=
p;
just to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was=
beginning
to fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and
armed with a genteel traveling basket,&nbs=
p;
she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spi=
rit and
fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desi=
re
was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time=
at
home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought.
As the omnibus contained only
one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled =
the
tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So
busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not obse=
rve
a newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice
said, "Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one=
of
Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get o=
ut
before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulat=
ing herself
that she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young man's greeting =
with
her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently, for
Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would
leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when t=
he
old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh
horror!--the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to
the highborn eyes of a Tudor.
"By Jove, she's forgott=
en
her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster i=
nto
its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old
lady.
"Please don't--it's--it=
's
mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.
"Oh, really, I beg pard=
on.
It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presenc=
e of
mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding.
Amy recovered herself in a
breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, "Don't =
you
wish you were to have some of the salad he's going to make, and to see the
charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
Now that was tact, for two of
the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was
instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity abo=
ut
`the charming young ladies' diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
"I suppose he'll laugh =
and
joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort,"
thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this mee=
ting
at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was
much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but
went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than befor=
e,
and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. feeling that the neighbors were
interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's
failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the `cherry bounce', and d=
rove
away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
"There's the rumble,
they're coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, =
and
I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said
Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retir=
ed,
with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriag=
e,
sat Amy and one young lady.
"Run, Beth, and help Ha=
nnah
clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon
for twelve before a single girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower
regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh.
In came Amy, quite calm and
delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of=
the
family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss
Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control en=
tirely
the merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch being gaily partaken
of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy
ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her friend
quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when `the party went out'.
As she came walking in, look=
ing
very tired but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the =
unfortunate
fete had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's =
mouth.
"You've had a loverly
afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if
the whole twelve had come.
"Miss Eliott is a very
sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself,&n=
bsp;
I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
"Could you spare me som=
e of
your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such
delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg soberly.
"Take it all. I'm the o=
nly
one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before I can dispose of
it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had =
laid
in for such an end as this.
"It's a pity Laurie isn=
't
here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for
the second time in two days.
A warning look from her moth=
er
checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, ti=
ll
Mr. March mildly observed, &q=
uot;salad
was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn..." Here a =
general
explosion of laughter cut short the `history of salads', to the great surprise of the learn=
ed
gentleman.
"Bundle everything into=
a
basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like messes. I'm sick of the sig=
ht
of this, and there's no reason you should all die of a surfeit because I've
been a fool," cried Amy, wiping her eyes. "I thought I should have
died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like =
two
little kernels in a very big nutshell, and Mother waiting in state to recei=
ve
the throng," sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.
"I'm very sorry you were
disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said Mrs.
March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
"I am satisfied. I've d=
one
what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself wi=
th
that," said Amy with a little quiver in her voice. "I thank you a=
ll
very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude=
to
it for a month, at least."
No one did for several month=
s,
but the word `fete' always produced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday =
gift
to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard=
.
Fortune suddenly smiled upon=
Jo,
and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but=
I
doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the
little sum that came to her in this wise.
Every few weeks she would sh=
ut
herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and `fall into a vortex=
',
as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul,=
for
till that was finished she could find no peace. Her `scribbling suit' consi=
sted
of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a c=
ap
of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundl=
ed
her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to t=
he
inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance,
merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" =
They
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of
the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was dr=
awn
low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciti=
ng
moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it=
was
plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor, and cast upon the floor. At su=
ch
times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen ga=
ily
erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a
genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up =
to
it with entire abandon, and l=
ed a
blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an
imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in t=
he
flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all=
too
short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made=
these
hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The devine afflatus
usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her `vortex', hungr=
y,
sleepy, cross, or despondent.
She was just recovering from=
one
of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a
lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a
People's Course, the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the=
choice
of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some g=
reat
social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the
glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the pr=
ice
of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder rid=
dles
than that of the Sphinx.
They were early, and while M=
iss
Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the fa=
ces
of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons,
with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women's Rights and =
making
tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by
the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an o=
ld
gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right,
her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, an=
d Jo
examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous
concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an
Indian in full war costume, t=
umbling
over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young
gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each oth=
er
close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her
mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page,&n=
bsp;
the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half hi=
s paper,
saying bluntly, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story."
Jo accepted it with a smile,=
for
she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved=
in
the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to
that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and wh=
en
the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one h=
alf
the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.=
"Prime, isn't it?"
asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
"I think you and I coul=
d do
as well as that if we tried," returned Jo, amused at his admiration of=
the
trash.
"I should think I was a
pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, =
they
say." And he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under t=
he
title of the tale.
"Do you know her?"
asked Jo, with sudden interest.
"No, but I read all her
pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is
printed." "Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like
this?" And Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thick=
ly sprinkled
exclamation points that adorned the page.
"Guess she does! She kn=
ows
just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it."
Here the lecture began, but =
Jo
heard very little of it, for while Professor Sands was prosing away about
Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down =
the
address of the paper, and bol=
dly
resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a
sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she
had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper=
),
and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide
whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
she said nothing of her plan=
at
home, but fell to work next day, much
to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when `gen=
ius
took to burning'. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild =
romances
for THE SPREAD EAGLE. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of serv=
ice
now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot,
language, and costumes. Her s=
tory
was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with tho=
se
uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lis=
bon,
she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. =
The
manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying
that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect=
, she would be very glad to receive =
any
sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to
wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both,=
and
was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again,=
when a letter arrived which almost=
took
her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into=
her
lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read=
her
letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note
could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I
think he would devote his leisure hours,&n=
bsp;
if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the letter more than=
the
money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so plea=
sant
to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a
sensation story.
A prouder young woman was se=
ldom
seen than she, when, having composed herself, she electrified the family by
appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other,
announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee,=
and
when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father h=
ad
told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he
shook his head, and said in his unworldly way...
"You can do better than
this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money."
"I think the money is t=
he
best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?" asked Amy,
regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.
"Send Beth and Mother to
the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo promptly.
To the seaside they went, af=
ter
much discussion, and though Beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as coul=
d be
desired, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years
younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fe=
ll
to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful chec=
ks. She
did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house,=
for
by the magic of a pen, her `rubbish' turned into comforts for them all. The
Duke's Daughter paid the butcher's bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carp=
et,
and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the wa=
y of
groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most
desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses =
of
adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head =
or
hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful,=
and
useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, t=
aking
great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need
ask no one for a penny.
Little notice was taken of h=
er
stories, but they found a market, =
span>and
encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and
fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her
confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it =
down
one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.
"Now I must either bund=
le
it back in to my tin kitchen to mold,
pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get=
what
I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so I =
wish
to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject," said Jo,
calling a family council.
"Don't spoil your book,=
my
girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked ou=
t.
Let it wait and ripen," was her father's advice, and he practiced what=
he
preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripe=
n,
and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.
"It seems to me that Jo
will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting," said Mrs. March.
"Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both
unsuspected merits and faults, and
help her to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and bla=
me
of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
"Yes," said Jo,
knitting her brows, "that's just it. I've been fussing over the thing =
so
long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent. It will b=
e a
great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me w=
hat
they think of it."
"I wouldn't leave a word
out of it. You'll spoil it if you do,
for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actio=
ns of
the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go
on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarka=
ble
novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, `L=
eave
out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters te=
ll
the story'," interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher's note.
"Do as he tells you. He
knows what will sale, and we don't. Make a good, popular book, and get as m=
uch
money as you can. By-and-by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digr=
ess,
and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said A=
my,
who took a strictly practical view of the subject.
"Well," said Jo,
laughing, "if my people are `philosophical and metaphysical', it isn't=
my
fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say;,
sometimes. If I've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so
much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"
"I should so like to se=
e it
printed soon," was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there w=
as
an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes th=
at
never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Jo's heart for a minute wi=
th a
forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture `soon'.
So, with Spartan firmness, t=
he
young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as
ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone=
's
advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.
Her father liked the
metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowe=
d to
remain though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there wa=
s a
trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many neces=
sary
links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to su=
it
her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, =
Jo
quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the stor=
y.
Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly se=
nt
the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world =
to
try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she
got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both=
so
much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilder=
ment
from which it took her some time to recover.
"You said, Mother, that
criticism would help me. But how can it, when it's so contradictory that I
don't know whether I've written a promising book or broken all the ten
commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the peru=
sal
of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the nex=
t.
"This man says, `An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and
earnestness.
All is sweet, pure, and
healthy.'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, `The the=
ory
of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnat=
ural
characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't believe in
Spiritualism, and copied my
characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right. Another say=
s,
`It's one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.' (I know
better than that), and the next asserts that `Though it is original, and
written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some
make fun of it, some overprai=
se,
and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrot=
e it
for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd printed the whole or not at all,=
for
I do hate to be so misjudged."
Her family and friends
administered comfort and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for
sensitive, high-spirited Jo, =
who
meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
whose opinion had real value gave her the critism which is an author's best
education, and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor
little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and strong=
er
for the buffeting she had received.
"Not being a genius, li=
ke
Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and I've got the jok=
e on
my side, after all, for the parts that were taken straight out of real life=
are
denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my=
own
silly head are pronounced `charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll c=
omfort
myself with that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."=
Like most other young matron= s, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day,= and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some o= bstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too tired, sometimes, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As fo= r buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and s= ee if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.<= o:p>
They were very happy, even a=
fter
they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Me=
g's
beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee
pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her h=
usband
followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send some veal =
or
mutton for dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified
bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a
change for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over =
it
like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the
head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, =
put
on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than
discretion.
While the cooking mania last=
ed
she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical
exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her fa=
mily
were invited in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty
would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be co=
ncealed
from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening =
with
John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culina=
ry
enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put
through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried
his soul, although he bore it=
with
praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg adde=
d to
her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a
family jar.
Fired a with housewifely wis=
h to
see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up =
her
own currant jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little
pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and w=
ere to
be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that `my wife' was equal to
anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she shoul=
d be
gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for
winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of
sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair
tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron whic=
h had
a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work,
feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundr=
eds
of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fon=
d of
jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that M=
eg
resolved to fill them all, and spend a long day picking, boiling, straining,
and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs.
Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left u=
ndone,
she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't
`jell'.
She longed to run home, bib =
and
all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had agreed that th=
ey
would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarre=
ls.
They had laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most=
preposterous
one, but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on wit=
hout
help they did so, and no one interfered,&n=
bsp;
for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the =
refractory
sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her
topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of t=
he
new life, she had often said, "My
husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes. I
shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomf=
ort,
but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never sto=
p to
ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.&quo=
t;
How charming that was, to be
sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a bles=
sed
thing it was to have a superior wife. But, although they had had company fr=
om
time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an
opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this v=
ale
of tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only won=
der
at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
If John had not forgotten all
about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose th=
at
day, of all the days in the year, to bring a friend home to dinner
unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered
that morning, feeling sure th=
at it
would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the
charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to =
meet
him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfac=
tion
of a young host and husband.
It is a world of
disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the Dovecote. the front
door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked, a=
nd
yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and
curtained, no picture of the =
pretty
wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her h=
air,
or a bright-eyed hostess, smi=
ling a
shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a
sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.
"I'm afraid something h=
as
happened. Step into the garden, Scott,&nbs=
p;
while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence=
and
solitude.
Round the house he hurried, =
led
by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a
queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke
disappeared, but he could bot=
h see
and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confu=
sion
and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay
upon the floor, and a third w=
as
burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating
bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid stat=
e,
while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.
"My dearest girl, what =
is
the matter?" cried John, rushing in,&=
nbsp;
with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and =
secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
"Oh, John, I am so tired
and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it till I'm all worn out. Do co=
me
and help me or I shall die!" And the exhausted housewife cast herself =
upon
his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at t=
he
same time as the floor.
"What worries you dear?=
Has
anything dreadful happened?" asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing =
the
crown of the little cap, which was all askew.
"Yes," sobbed Meg
despairingly.
"Tell me quick, then. D=
on't
cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love."
"The...The jelly won't =
jell
and I don't know what to do!"
John Brooke laughed then as =
he
never dared to laugh afterward, and
the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which =
put
the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.
"Is that all? Fling it =
out
of the window, and don't bother any more about it. I'll buy you quarts if y=
ou
want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack
Scott home to dinner, and...&=
quot;
John got no further, for Meg
cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a
chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...=
"A man to dinner, and
everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?"
"Hush, he's in the gard=
en!
I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now," said John,
surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
"You ought to have sent
word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I
was," continued Meg petulantly,
for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
"I didn't know it this =
morning,
and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never
thought of asking leave, when=
you
have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me =
if I
ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.
"I should hope not! Take
him away at once. I can't see him, <=
/span>and
there isn't any dinner."
"Well, I like that! Whe=
re's
the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised?" cr=
ied
John, rushing to the larder. "I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant =
to
dine at Mother's. I'm sorry, but I was so busy," and Meg's tears began
again.
John was a mild man, but he =
was
human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful,=
to
find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly
conductive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself however, and =
the little
squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
"It's a scrape, I
acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand,&=
nbsp;
we'll pull through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but ju=
st
exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We're both as hungry =
as
hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and
cheese. We won't ask for jelly."
He meant it to be a good-nat=
ured
joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hi=
nt
about her sad failure, and th=
e last
atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
"You must get yourself =
out
of the scrape as you can. I'm too used up to `exert' myself for anyone. It's
like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won=
't
have anything of the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother's, and =
tell
him I'm away, sick, dead, anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh =
at
me and my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here.&quo=
t;
And having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pina=
fore
and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.
What those two creatures did=
in
her absence, she never knew, =
but Mr.
scott was not taken `up to Mother's', and when Meg descended, after they had strolled away toget=
her,
she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty
reported that they had eaten "a much, and greatly laughed, and the mas=
ter bid
her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
Meg longed to go and tell
Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short comings, of loyalty to John,
"who might be cruel, but nobody should know it," restrained her, =
and
after a summary cleaning up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to =
wait
for John to come and be forgiven.
Unfortunately, John didn't c=
ome,
not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke w=
ith
Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so
hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to co=
me again,
but John was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted
him in his hour of need. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks =
home
any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame=
up
and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, =
by
George, it wasn't! And Meg must know it."
He had fumed inwardly during=
the
feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott
off, a milder mood came over him. "Poor little thing! It was hard upon=
her
when she tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then=
she
was young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone=
home--he
hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere
thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened h=
is
heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,&=
nbsp;
resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her wh=
ere
she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be
`calm and kind, but firm', and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet
him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being,
but, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming,
began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisu=
re
in her best parlor.
John was a little disappoint=
ed
not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first
apology, he made none, only c=
ame
leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant
remark, "We are going to have a new moon, my dear."
"I've no objection,&quo=
t;
was Meg's equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest w=
ere
introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation
languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himsel=
f in
it, figuratively speaking. Me=
g went
to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among t=
he
necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite `calm and firm', and =
both
felt desperately uncomfortable.
"Oh, dear," thought
Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as =
well
as love, as Mother says." The word `Mother' suggested other maternal
counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.
"John is a good man, bu=
t he
has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering y=
our
own. He is very decided, but =
never
will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular
about the truth--a good trait, though you call him `fussy'. Never deceive h=
im
by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the =
support
you need. He has a temper, not like ours--one flash and then all over--but =
the
white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quen=
ch.
Be careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for pe=
ace
and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to
ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little piques,
misunderstandings, and hasty =
words
that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."
These words came back to Meg=
, as
she sat sewing in the sunset, especially
the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty speeches
sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked
childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite
melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not=
see
them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, "I will be the first=
to
say, `Forgive me', but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly ac=
ross
the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a
minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it, then came the thought, Thi=
s is
the beginning. I'll do my par=
t, and
have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping sown, she softly
kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent
kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a
minute, saying tenderly...
"It was too bad to laug=
h at
the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!"
But he did, oh bless you, ye=
s,
hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest
jelly they ever made, for fam=
ily
peace was preserved in that little family jar.
After this, Meg had Mr. Scot=
t to
dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, =
on
which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so
charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his h=
ead
over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.
In the autumn, new trials and
experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship, was always
running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting `that poor
dear' to come in and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in
dull weather Meg often felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till
night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally
fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend.
Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself beca=
use
she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the covet=
ed
trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like it, and then
this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse.
She knew her husband's incom=
e,
and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but
what some men seem to value more--his money. She knew where it was, was fre=
e to
take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of e=
very
penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife.
Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account
books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that autumn =
the
serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not
with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel
poor. It irritated her, but s=
he was
ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buy=
ing
something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She al=
ways
felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but th=
en they
cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying about, so the trifles increased
unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive
looker-on.
But the trifles cost more th=
an
one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month
the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bill=
s to
her, the next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly s=
ettling
up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thin=
g, and
it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed
for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so
common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt M=
arch
usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Yea=
r's.
That was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a
bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John always s=
aid
what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend not only the
prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the househo=
ld
fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to =
lend
the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her
strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering fold=
s, and
said, "A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll
take it," and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and=
she
had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away, feeli=
ng
as if she had stolen something, and the police were after her.
When she got home, she tried=
to
assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it loo=
ked
less silvery now, didn't beco=
me
her, after all, and the words `fifty dollars' seemed stamped like a pattern
down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as=
a
new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not eas=
ily
laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the
first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, br=
own eyes
looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she
fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house
bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was
undoing the old pocketbook which they called the `bank', when Meg, knowing =
that
it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously...
"You haven't seen my
private expense book yet."
John never asked to see it, =
but
she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazem=
ent
at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand
fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing compos=
ed
of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly b=
e a
bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the =
fun
of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance,=
as
he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife.
The little book was brought
slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretens=
e of
smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she s=
aid,
with her panic increasing with every word . ..
"John, dear, I'm ashame=
d to
show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go
about so much I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting i=
t,
so I did, and my New Year's money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry a=
fter
I had done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."
John laughed, and drew her r=
ound
beside him, saying goodhumoredly, "Don't go and hide. I won't beat you=
if
you have got a pair of killing boots. I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, a=
nd don't
mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good
ones."
That had been one of her last
`trifles', and John's eye had fallen on it as he spoke. "Oh, what will=
he
say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a
shiver.
"It's worse than boots,
it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she
wanted the worst over.
"Well, dear, what is the
`dem'd total', as Mr. Mantalini says?"
That didn't sound like John,=
and
she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had
always been ready to meet and answer with one as frank till now. She turned=
the
page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have be=
en bad
enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. F=
or a
minute the room was very still, then John said slowly--but she could feel it
cost him an effort to express no displeasure--. . .
"Well, I don't know that
fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to h=
ave
to finish it off these days."
"It isn't made or
trimmed," sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost s=
till
to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
"Twenty-five yards of s=
ilk
seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I've no doubt my wife will =
look
as fine as Ned Moffat's when she gets it on," said John dryly.
"I know you are angry,
John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste your money, and I didn't t=
hink
those little things would count up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie
buying all she wants, and pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented,
but it is hard, and I'm tired of being poor."
The last words were spoken so
low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deep=
ly,
for he had denied himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bit=
ten
her tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away a=
nd
got up, saying with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of thi=
s. I
do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would =
not
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him clo=
se,
crying, with repentant tears, "Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working b=
oy.
I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I s=
ay
it! Oh, how could I say it!" He was very kind, forgave her readily, and
did not utter one reproach, but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing
which would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it aga=
in.
She had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, h=
ad
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly. It=
was
dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so quietly afterward, just a=
s if
nothing had happened, except =
that
he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herse=
lf
to sleep. A week or remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the discovery that Jo=
hn
had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of
despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her
surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear.&quo=
t;
Meg said no more, but a few
minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old
greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.
They had a long talk that ni=
ght,
and Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seem=
ed
to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his =
own
way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the
natural longings and failures of those he loved.
Next day she put her pride in
her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk a=
s a
favor. The good- natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy=
not
to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the
greatcoat, and when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked=
her
new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home early, =
Meg
gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy
husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife. So the year =
rolled
round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and
tenderest of a woman's life.
Laurie came sneaking into the
kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face, and was received
with the clash of cymbals, for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in =
one and
the cover in the other.
"How's the little mamma?
Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me before I came home?" began
Laurie in a loud whisper.
"Happy as a queen, the
dear! Every soul of `em is upstairs a worshipin'. We didn't want no hurryca=
nes
round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll send `em down to you," with
which somewhat involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Presently Jo appeared, proud=
ly
bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very
sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of
repressed emotion of some sort.
"Shut your eyes and hold
out your arms," she said invitingly.
Laurie backed precipitately =
into
a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture. "No,
thank you. I'd rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate.&qu=
ot;
"Then you shan't see yo=
ur
nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to go.
"I will, I will! Only y=
ou
must be responsible for damages." And obeying orders, Laurie heroically
shut his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal of laughter from
Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minu=
te,
to find himself invested with two babies instead of one.
No wonder they laughed, for =
the
expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood a=
nd
stared wildly from the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators wi=
th such
dismay that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
"Twins, by Jupiter!&quo=
t;
was all he said for a minute, then turning to the women with an appealing l=
ook
that was comically piteous, he added, "Take `em quick, somebody! I'm g=
oing
to laugh, and I shall drop `em."
Jo rescued his babies, and
marched up and down, with one on each are, as if already initiated into the
mysteries of babytending, while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks.
"It's the best joke of =
the
season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you, for I set my heart on surprising
you, and I flatter myself I've done it," said Jo, when she got her bre=
ath.
"I never was more stagg=
ered
in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? L=
et's
have another look. Hold me up, Jo, for upon my life it's one too many for
me," returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big,
benevolent Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
"Boy and girl. Aren't t=
hey
beauties?" said the proud papa,
beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged ange=
ls.
"Most remarkable childr=
en I
ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine
the prodigies.
"Amy put a blue ribbon =
on
the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. =
Kiss
them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.
"I'm afraid they mightn=
't
like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters.
"Of course they will, t=
hey
are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he
might propose a proxy.
Laurie screwed up his face a=
nd
obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laug=
h,
and made the babies squeal.
"There, I knew they did=
n't
like it! That's the boy, see him kick, he hits out with his fists like a go=
od
one. Now then, young Brooke, =
pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
"He's to be named John
Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call
her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Ja=
ck,
unless we find a better name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.
"Name him Demijohn, and
call him Demi for short," said Laurie
"Daisy and Demi, just t=
he
thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried Jo clapping her hands.
Teddy certainly had done it =
that
time, for the babies were `Daisy' and `Demi' to the end of the chapter.
"Come, Jo, it's time."
"For what?"
"You don't mean to say you have forgotten =
that
you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?"
"I've done a good many rash and foolish th=
ings
in my life, but I don't think=
I
ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one
upsets me for a week."
"Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us=
. I
was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with =
me, and return our neighbors' visits.&=
quot;
"If it was fair, that was in the bond, and=
I
stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the e=
ast, it's not fair, and I don't go.&quo=
t;
"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, =
no
prospect of rain, and you pri=
de
yourself on keeping; promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and =
then
be at peace for another six months."
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in =
dressmaking, for she was mantua-maker general t=
o the
family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle =
as
well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first
tryingon, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm July da=
y. She
hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her w=
ith
a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, =
and
having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled
thunder, she gave in, put awa=
y her
work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy=
the
victim was ready.
"Jo March, you are perverse enough to prov=
oke
a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried =
Amy,
surveying her with amazement.
"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortabl=
e,
quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clo=
thes
than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and =
be
as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me, and
furbelows only worry me."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she=
's
in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her proper=
ly
ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe
society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for =
you,
Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely,&=
nbsp;
and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so
aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you.=
I'm
afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me."
"You're an artful little puss to flatter a=
nd
wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocrati=
c and
well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is
the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must,&=
nbsp;
and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll o=
bey
blindly, will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from
perversity to lamblike submission.
"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all y=
our
best things, and I'll tell yo=
u how
to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I want pe=
ople
to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable=
. Do
your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becomi=
ng,
and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the
embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshad=
e,
and then you can have my dove-colored one."
While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as s= he rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bo= nnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly...<= o:p>
"I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consi=
der
me presentable, I die happy.&=
quot;
"You're highly satisfactory. turn slowly
round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a tou=
ch
here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing
graciously, "Yes, you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that wh=
ite
bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry
your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you=
can
do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to see you,=
and
I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome,=
and those folds over the arm are r=
eally
artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dre=
ss
evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose
isn't."
"You are a thing of beauty and a joy
forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoiss=
eur
at the blue feather against the golden hair. "Am I to drag my best dre=
ss
through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?"
"Hold it yup when you walk, but drop it in=
the
house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your =
skirts
gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You'll never
look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make
yup the pleasing whole."
Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons o=
ff
her glove, in doing up her cu=
ff,
but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as `pretty as picters', Ha=
nnah
said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.
"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider
themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportmen=
t.
Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just b=
e calm,
cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fif=
teen
minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed
the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.
"Let me see. `Calm, cool, and quiet', yes,=
I
think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the =
stage,
and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child.=
"
Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at=
her
word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed=
, every fold correctly draped, calm =
as a
summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs.
Chester alluded to her `charming novel', and the Misses Chester introduced
parties, picnics, the opera, =
and
the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure
"Yes" or "No" with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed
the word `talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with =
her
foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconcious of it all, with deportment like Maud's
face, `icily regular, splendidly null'.
"What a haughty, uninteresting creature th=
at
oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of =
the
ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all th=
rough
the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and =
very
naturally laid the blame upon Jo.
"How could you mistake me so? I merely mea=
nt
you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect
stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lamb's'. Gossip as other girls d=
o, and be interested in dress and
flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, =
are
valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impress=
ion
there for anything."
"I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle,
and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this,
and now I'll imitate what is called `a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model,=
and
I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, `What a lively, nice
creature that Jo March is!"
Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo
turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a=
study
when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young
ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in=
the
chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs.
Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lu=
cretia's
last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they migh=
t rush
in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed
possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. =
A knot
of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was goi=
ng
on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter mad=
e her
wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragmen=
ts
of this sort of conversation.
"She rides splendidly. who taught her?&quo=
t;
"No one. She used to practice mounting,
holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she
rides anything, for she doesn=
't
know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she
trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often
tell her if everything else fails, <=
/span>she
can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so."
At this awful speech Amy contained herself with
difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast y=
oung
lady, which was her especial
aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her
story, and long before it was done,
Jo was off again, make more droll revelations and committing still m=
ore
fearful blunders.
"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all=
the
good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the
other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start.=
Nice
animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
"Which did she choose?" asked one of =
the
laughing gentlemen, who enjoy=
ed the
subject.
"None of them. She heard of a young horse =
at
the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she
resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were
really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she =
took
the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the
river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazemen=
t of
the old man!"
"Did she ride the horse?'
"Of course she did, and had a capital time=
. I
expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectl=
y,
and was the life of the party."
"Well, I call that plucky!" And young=
Mr.
Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be
saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable.
She was still redder and more uncomfortable a
moment after, when a sudden t=
urn in
the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies a=
sked
Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo,
instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must nee=
ds
answer with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy =
those
soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to ha=
ve
an artistic sister."
"Isn't that an original idea?" cried =
Miss
Lamb, who found Jo great fun.
"That's nothing compared to some of her
brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted=
a
pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white
ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly =
like
satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments=
that
exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardca=
se
at her.
"We read a story of yours the other day, a=
nd
enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compli=
ment
the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be
confessed.
Any mention of her `works' always had a bad eff=
ect
upon Jo, who either grew rigi=
d and
looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now.
"Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish bec=
ause
it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winte=
r?'
As Miss Lamb had `enjoyed' the story, this spee=
ch
was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her
mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it =
was
for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that=
left
three people with half- finished sentences in their mouths.
"Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come a=
nd
see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if
you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away.&quo=
t;
Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May
Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible=
, feeling
a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
"Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a
satisfied air as they walked away.
"Nothing could have been worse," was
Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about =
my
saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?"
"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They =
know
we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or fo=
ur
hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do."
"You needn't go and tell them all our litt=
le
shifts, and expose our; poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You have=
n't a
bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when=
to
speak," said Amy despairingly.
Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the=
end
of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her
misdemeanors.
"How shall I behave here?" she asked,=
as
they approached the third mansion.
"Just as you please. I wash my hands of
you," was Amy's short answer.
"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at h=
ome,
and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, f=
or elegance
has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to =
suit.
An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and
several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving =
Amy
to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise=
, Jo
devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She
listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodl=
es
without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick,"
regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visi=
t to
his turtle tank, she went wit=
h an
alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled
the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but
affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the h=
ands
of an inspired Frenchwoman.
Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy
proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had
married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy rega=
rded
the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and
breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of
us--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the m=
ost
democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal
yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do w=
ith
the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an
imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a
farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking wi=
th a
distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of
time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore
herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently
hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which
should bring disgrace upon the name of March.
It might have been worse, but Amy considered it
bad. For Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a d=
irty-footed
dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related o=
ne
of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking tur=
tles
with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best
bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves. but all were enjoying
themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort
accompanied her, begging her =
to
come again, "It was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks."
"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite y=
oung
and brisk again after that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands
behind her, partly from habit,
partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?"
asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appeara=
nce.
"Don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his
sisters, worries his father, a nd doesn't speak respectfully of his mother.
Laurie says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> so I let him alone."
"You might treat him civilly, at least. You
gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way =
to Tommy
Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed t=
he
nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.
"No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "=
;I
neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's
nephew's niece was a third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and =
good
and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is=
a
gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels."
"It's no use trying to argue with you,&quo=
t;
began Amy.
"Not the least, my dear," interrupted=
Jo,
"so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are eviden=
tly
out, for which I'm deeply
grateful."
The family cardcase having done its duty the gi=
rls
walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house,=
and
being told that the young ladies were engaged.
"now let us go home, and never mind Aunt M=
arch
today. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail thro=
ugh
the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt M=
arch
likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a fo=
rmal
call. It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't bel=
ieve
it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping bo=
ys
spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."=
;
"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said=
Jo,
with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister,
which was fresh and spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to d=
o little
things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do t=
hem,
so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip,
but they tell best in the end, I fancy."
Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying wi=
th a
maternal air, "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor o=
nes, for they have no other way of repa=
ying
the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd=
be
better liked than I am, because there is more of you."
"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always sha= ll be, but I'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to r= isk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. = It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"<= o:p>
"It's a greater not to be able to hide the=
m. I
don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I=
'm not
called upon to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making
yourself disagreeable because he is."
"But I think girls ought to show when they
disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Pr=
eaching
does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddie to mana=
ge.
But there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word,=
and
I say we ought to do it to others if we can."
"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be t=
aken
as a sample of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction,
which would have convulsed the `remarkable boy' if he had heard it. "I=
f we
were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhap=
s,
but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve =
of
them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of
effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical."
"So we are to countenance things and people
which we detest, merely becau=
se we
are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality.&qu=
ot;
"I can't argue about it, I only know that =
it's
the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get lau=
ghed
at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be
one."
"I do like them, and I shall be one if I c=
an,
for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We
can't agree about that. for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You
will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should
rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."
"Well, compose yourself now, and don't wor=
ry
Aunt with your new ideas."
"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed=
to
burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment be=
fore
her. It's my doom, and I can't help it."
They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both
absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls=
came
in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about t=
heir
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy,=
who
had virtuously done her duty, kept
her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This
amiable spirit was felt at once, and both aunts `my deared' her affectionat=
ely,
looking what they afterward said emphatically, "That child improves ev=
ery
day."
"Are you going to help about the fair,
dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as
Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well =
in
the young.
"Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I wou=
ld,
and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."=
"I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "=
;I
hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow u=
s to
help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they on=
ly
want you to work."
"I am willing to work. It's for the freedm=
en
as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share t=
he labor
and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
"Quite right and proper. I like your grate=
ful
spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts.
Some do not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over he=
r spectacles
at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.
If Jo had only known what a great happiness was
wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in=
a minute,
but unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the=
minds
of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and
then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her n=
ext
speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a ti=
mely
lesson in the art of holding her tongue.
"I don't like favors, they oppress and mak=
e me
feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly in=
dependent."
"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, w=
ith
a look at Aunt March.
"I told you so," said Aunt March, wit=
h a
decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo=
sat
with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but
inviting.
"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mr=
s.
Carrol, laying a hand on Amy's.
"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who le=
ts
Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied amy, with a grateful lo=
ok,
which caused the old lady to smile affably.
"How are you about languages?" asked =
Mrs.
Carrol of JO.
"Don't know a word. I'm very stupid about
studying anything, can't bear
French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque
reply.
Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt
March said to Amy, 'You are quite strong and well no, dear, I believe? Eyes=
don't
trouble you any more, do they?"
"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very we=
ll,
and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome,
whenever that joyful time arrives."
"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure
you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving; pat on the hea=
d,
as Amy picked up her ball for her.
Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin,
squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on =
the
back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of
impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing.
"Most observing bird," said the old l=
ady.
"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried
Polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of
sugar.
"Thank you, I will. Come Amy." And Jo
brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did=
have
a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner,
but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression=
of
shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they
vanished...
"You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the
money. And Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her
father and mother consent."
Mrs. Chester's fair was so v=
ery
elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies=
of
the neighborhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much inter=
est in
the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all part=
ies,
as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life, and it took=
a
good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily. The `haughty,
uninteresting creature' was let severely alone, but Amy's talent and taste =
were
duly complimented by the offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to
prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.
Everything went on smoothly =
till
the day before the fair opened, then there occurred one of the little
skirmishes which it is almost impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twent=
y women,
old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work
together.
May Chester was rather jealo=
us
of Amy because the latter was a greater favorite than herself, and just at =
this
time several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's
dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases--that was one
thorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy at a la=
te
party and only once with May--that was thorn number two. But the chief
grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly
conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that =
the
March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should
have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to esc=
ape
detection, and the frolicsome=
Lambs
had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits,
however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the
fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester=
, who, of course, resented the suppo=
sed
ridicule of her daughter, sai=
d, in
a bland tone, but with a cold look...
"I find, dear, that the=
re
is some feeling among the young ladies about my giving this table to anyone=
but
my girls. As this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive t=
able
of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best f=
or
them to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely intere=
sted
in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have
another table if you like."
Mrs. Chester fancied beforeh=
and
that it would be easy to deliver this little speech, but when the time came,
she found it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspiciou=
s eyes
looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble.
"Amy felt that there was
something behind this, but would not guess what, and said quietly, feeling
hurt, and showing that she did, "Perhaps you had rather I took no tabl=
e at
all?"
"Now, my dear, don't ha=
ve
any ill feeling, I beg. It's merely a matter of expediency, you see, my gir=
ls
will naturally take the lead, and this table is considered their proper pla=
ce. I
think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to
make it so pretty, but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I
will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower
table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could m=
ake
a charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you
know."
"Especially to
gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy as to one cau=
se
of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but took no other notic=
e of
that girlish sarcasm, and ans=
wered
with unexpected amiability...
"It shall be as you ple=
ase,
Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers=
, if
you like."
"You can put your own
things on your own table, if you prefer," began May, feeling a little
conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells,=
and
quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. =
She
meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly . ..
"Oh, certainly, if they=
are
in your way," and sweeping her contributions into her apron, pell-mell,
she walked off, feeling that herself and her works of art had been insulted
past forgiveness.
"Now she's mad. Oh, dea=
r, I
wish I hadn't asked you to speak, Mama," said May, looking disconsolat=
ely
at the empty spaces on her table.
"Girls' quarrels are so=
on
over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in
this one, as well she might.
The little girls hailed Amy =
and
her treasures with delight, w=
hich
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to wo=
rk,
determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But everythi=
ng
seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. Everyone was too busy w=
ith
their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, f=
or
the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of
confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The =
evergreen
arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to
tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile=
got
a splash of water, which left a sephia tear on the Cupid's cheek. She bruis=
ed
her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last
affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl reader who
has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her we=
ll
through her task.
There was great indignation =
at
home when she told her story that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, =
but
told her she had done right. Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at a=
ll, and Jo demanded why she didn't tak=
e all
her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her.
"Because they are mean =
is
no reason why i should be. I hate such things, and though I think I've a ri=
ght
to be hurt, I don't intend to show it. They will feel that more than angry
speeches or huffy actions, won't they, Marmee?"
"That's the right spiri=
t,
my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to giv=
e it
sometimes," said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the
difference between preaching and practicing.
In spite of various very nat=
ural
temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the =
next
day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a =
silent
reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arrang=
ed
her table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling=
the
baskets, she took up her pet production,&n=
bsp;
a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among=
his
treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated
different texts. As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very
pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think.
Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits=
of
good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were
the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"I ought, but I
don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright page to May's
discontented face behind the big vases, that could not hide the vacancies h=
er
pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her
hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and
uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are preached us every
day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or home. Even a fair
table may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which=
are
never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that
text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the
sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice. A group of girls were
standing about May's table, admiring the pretty things, and talking over the
change of saleswomen. They dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were
speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and judging accordingly. It =
was
not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance=
offered
for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully...
"It's too bad, for ther=
e is
no time to make other things, and I don't want to fill up with odds and end=
s.
The table was just complete then. Now it's spoiled."
"I dare say she'd put t=
hem
back if you asked her," suggested someone.
"How could I after all =
the
fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for Amy's voice came across =
the
hall, saying pleasantly...
"You may have them, and
welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was just thinking I'd offer to=
put
them back, for they belong to your table rather than mine. Here they are,
please take them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last
night."
As she spoke, Amy returned h=
er
contribution, with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that =
it
was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it=
.
"Now, I call that lovel=
y of
her, don't you?" cried one girl.
May's answer was inaudible, =
but
another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making
lemonade, added, with a
disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them =
at
her own table."
Now, that was hard. When we =
make
little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least, and for a min=
ute
Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its won
reward. But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to ri=
se,
and her table to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind,
and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.
It was a very long day and a
hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the
little girls deserted very soon. Few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her
bouquets began to droop long before night.
The art table was the most
attractive in the room. There was a crowd about it all day long, and the
tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling
money boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where =
she
felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might
seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was =
not
only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his friends ma=
de
it a real martyrdom.
She did not go home till nig=
ht,
and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard
one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done.=
Her
mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath =
for
her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual
care, and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be turned.
"Don't do anything rude,
pray Jo. I won't have any fuss made,
so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she
departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her po=
or little
table.
"I merely intend to make
myself entrancingly agreeable to ever one I know, and to keep them in your
corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll =
have
a good time yet." returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laur=
ie.
Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet
him.
"Is that my boy?"<= o:p>
"As sure as this is my
girl!" And Laurie tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man
whose every wish was gratified.
"Oh, teddy, such
doings!" And Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
"A flock of our fellows=
are
going to drive over by-and-by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy
every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward," said
Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.
"The flowers are not at=
all
nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to =
be
unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When
people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed=
Jo
in a disgusted tone.
"Didn't Hayes give you =
the
best out of our gardens? I told him to."
"I didn't know that, he
forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry =
him
by asking, though I did want some."
"Now, Jo, how could you
think there was any need of asking? They are just as much yours as mine. Do=
n't
we always go halves in everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that alw=
ays
made Jo turn thorny.
"Gracious, I hope not! =
Half
of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand
philandering here. I've got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splend=
id,
and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to=
the
Hall, I'll bless you forever."
"Couldn't you do it
now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face =
with
inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, "Go away, Teddy, I'm
busy."
Thanks to the conspirators, =
the
tables were turned that night, for
Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a loverly basket arranged in his
best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en masse, a=
nd
Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed,
laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying
themselves very much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into
the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that
corner the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and out =
of
gratitude, if nothing more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, comin=
g to
the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was it's own reward, after all=
.
Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of ho= nor, Jo circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproac= hed herself for her share of the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as s= oon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgiver her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family.<= o:p>
"Good evening, Miss Jo.=
How
does Amy get on?" asked May with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to
show that she also could be generous.
"She has sold everything
she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower
table is always attractive, y=
ou
know, `especially to gentlemen'."
Jo couldn't resist giving th=
at
little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and
fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.
"Is Amy's illumination
anywhere about" I took a fancy to buy that for Father," said Jo, =
very
anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.
"Everything of Amy's so=
ld
long ago. I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice
little sum of money for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry sma=
ll
temptations, as well as Amy h=
ad, that
day.
Much gratified, Jo rushed ba=
ck
to tell the good news, and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the rep=
ort
of May's word and manner.
"Now, gentlemen, I want=
you
to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by min=
e,
especially the art table," she said, ordering out `Teddy's own', as the
girls called the college friends.
"`Charge, Chester, char=
ge!'
is the motto for that table, but do your duty like men, and you'll get your
money's worth of art in every sense of the word," said the irrepressib=
le
Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.
"To hear is to obey, but
March is fairer far than May," said little Parker, making a frantic ef=
fort
to be both witty and tender, =
and
getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said...
"Very well, my son, for=
a
small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.
"Buy the vases,"
whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's
head.
To May's great delight, Mr.
Laurence not only bought the vases,
but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen s=
peculated
with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly
about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios,=
and
other useful and appropriate purchases.
Aunt Carrol was there, heard=
the
story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which =
made
the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of m=
ingled
pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till
several days later.
The fair was pronounced a
success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but ga=
ve
her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said `forgive and forget'. That
satisfied Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the par=
lor
chimney piece with a great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a
magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish.
"You've a deal more
principle and generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you cr=
edit
for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart,"
said Jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.
"Yes, we all do, and lo=
ve
her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after
working so long and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I
don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth f=
rom
her pillow.
"Why, girls, you needn't
praise me so. I only did as I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I wa=
nt
to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try =
to
do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above=
the
little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far =
from
it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is."
Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo
said, with a cordial hug, "I understand now what you mean, and I'll ne=
ver
laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take=
lessons
of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you'll get your r=
eward
some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall."
A week later Amy did get her
reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt
Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was illuminated to such a degree when she rea=
d it
that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tiding were.
"Aunt Carrol is going
abroad next month, and wants..."
"Me to go with her!&quo=
t;
burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.
"No, dear, not you. It's
Amy."
"Oh, Mother! She's too
young, it's my turn first. I've wanted it so long. It would do me so much g=
ood,
and be so altogether splendid. I must go!"
"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly,&= nbsp; and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."<= o:p>
"It's always so. Amy has
all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!"
cried Jo passionately.
"I'm afraid it's partly
your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted yo=
ur
blunt manners and too independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting
something you had said--`I planned at first to ask Jo, but as `favors burden
her', and she `hates French',=
I
think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good
companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.&q=
uot;
"Oh, my tongue, my
abominable tongue! Why can't I learn to keep it quiet?' groaned Jo, remembe=
ring
words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the
quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully...
"I wish you could have
gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, a=
nd
don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets."
"I'll try," said J=
o,
winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset.
"I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but =
to
be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won't be easy, fo=
r it
is a dreadful disappointment." And poor Jo bedewed the little fat
pincushion she held with several very bitter tears. "Jo, dear, I'm very
selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite
yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a cling=
ing
touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret t=
hat
made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her
with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.
By the time Amy came in, Jo =
was
able to take her part in the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as us=
ual,
perhaps, but without repining=
s at
Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of
great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her co=
lors
and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less
absorbed in visions of art than herself.
"It isn't a mere pleasu=
re
trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best
palette. "It will decide my career, for if I have any genius, I shall =
find
it out in Rome, and will do
something to prove it."
"Suppose you haven't?&q=
uot;
said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes,
at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.
"Then I shall come home=
and
teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with
philosophic composure. But she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratch=
ed
away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her
hopes.
"No, you won't. You hate
hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap =
of
luxury all your days," said Jo.
"Your predictions somet=
imes
come to pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, =
for
if I can't be an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who
are," said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit h=
er
better than that of a poor drawing teacher.
"Hum!" said Jo, wi=
th a
sigh. "If you wish it you'll have it,=
for your wishes are always granted--mine never."
"Would you like to
go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife.
"Rather!"
"Well, in a year or two
I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all=
the
plans we've made so many times."
"Thank you. I'll remind=
you
of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned=
Jo,
accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could. "=
;There
was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy =
was
off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, wh=
en
she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any
more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed. Then just as th=
e gangway
was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was
soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Lau=
rie,
the last lingerer, saying with a sob...
"Oh, take care of them =
for
me, and if anything should happen... "
"I will, dear, I will, =
and
if anything happens, I'll come and comfort you," whispered Laurie, lit=
tle
dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.
So Amy sailed away to find t=
he
Old World, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father
and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentl=
e fortunes
would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they c=
ould
see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.
London
Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front windo=
w of
the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. I=
t's
not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go
anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter=
. Oh,
I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only giv=
e you
bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble sinc=
e I
started.
I sent a line from Halifax, =
when
I felt pretty miserable, but =
after
that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of
pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the
officers. Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship,=
to
hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mer=
cy to
make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid.
Aunt and Flo were poorly all=
the
way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I
went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air
and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly=
. I
wish Beth could have come, it=
would
have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the
maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the
engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in
such a state of rapture.
It was all heavenly, but I w=
as
glad to see the Irish coast, =
and
found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there,
ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, wi=
th
deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret
getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so
picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.
At Queenstown on of my new
acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lake=
s of
Killarney, he sighed and and,=
with
a look at me...
"Oh, have you e'er hear=
d of
Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her e=
ye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate
Kearney."
Wasn't that nonsensical?
We only stopped at Liverpool=
a
few hours. It's a dirty, noisy
place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of
dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved `a =
la
mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like=
a
true Briton, but the first ti=
me he
had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an Americ=
an
stood in them, and said, with=
a
grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given `em the latest Yankee shine.&quo=
t;
It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did!=
He
got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the
first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's
compliments," on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling.
I never shall get to London =
if I
don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture gallery, full =
of
lovely landscapes. The farmho=
uses
were my delight, with thatched roofs,
ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy chi=
ldren
at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood
knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never g=
ot
nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so
green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all =
the
way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to=
see
everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour.
Aunt was tired and went to sleep, =
span>but
Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on. Amy, f=
lying
up--"Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!&quo=
t;
Flo, darting to my window--"How sweet! We must go there sometime, won'=
t we
Papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless=
you
want beer, that's a brewery."
A pause--then Flo cried out,
"Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up." "Where,
where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and
some dangling chains. "A colliery," remarks Uncle, with a twinkle=
of
the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down," says Am=
y.
"See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo sentimentally.
"Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that keeps us qui=
et
till Flo settles down to enjoy the FLIRTATIONS OF CAPTAIN CAVENDISH, and I =
have
the scenery all to myself.
Of course it rained when we =
got
to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We reste=
d,
unpacked, and shopped a little
between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in su=
ch a
hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to
match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is =
perfectly
splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid i=
n a
stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant=
and
rich?
Flo and I, for the fun of it,
ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive,
though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ri=
de
in them alone. It was so droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apro=
n,
the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. but=
he
was up outside behind somewhere, and
I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in
front, and there we were, quite helpless,&=
nbsp;
rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At l=
ast,
in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red
eye appeared, and a beery voice said...
"Now, then, mum?"<= o:p>
I gave my order as soberly a=
s I
could, and slamming down the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the m=
an
made his horse walk, as if go=
ing to
a funeral. I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he
went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.
Today was fair, and we went =
to
Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of
Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, a=
nd the
Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It
was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red
and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coa=
ts,
up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest
children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer =
English
hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin ca=
ps
stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them.
Rotten Row means `Route de R=
oi',
or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything els=
e.
The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but=
the
women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to
show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down,=
in
their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ar=
k.
Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little children-- and the young folk=
s do
a deal of flirting here, I say a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thin=
g to
wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.
In the P.M. to Westminster
Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only =
say
it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an
appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.
It's very late, but I can't =
let
my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening.=
Who
do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so
surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. both are tall
fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much
better, for he only limps sli=
ghtly,
and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and c=
ame
to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, =
and
see them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such a
good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over pas=
t,
present, and future fun as if we had know each other all our days. Tell Beth
Frank asked for her, and was =
sorry
to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his
`respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp
Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?
Aunt is tapping on the wall =
for
the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine
lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head=
a
jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say
"Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English
lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever,
your loving... AMY
PARIS
Dear girls,
In my last I told you about =
our
London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made
for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more
than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Mus=
eum,
rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other
great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular
English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could
copy, also heard a nightingal=
e, and
saw larks go up. We `did' London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and
Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take
you in, when they once make up
their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The
Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully
disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys
very nice fellows, especially Fred.
Well, we were hardly settled
here, when he turned up again, saying
he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober =
at
first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now we get =
on
nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I
don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and
insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people understand
him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flatte=
red
ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to
have Fred do the `parley vooing', as Uncle calls it.
Such delightful times as we =
are
having! Sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in =
the
gay cafes, and meeting with a=
ll
sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in
pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because =
she
has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivation eye and taste as fast =
as I
can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her
Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbru=
sh,
also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's=
sword,
and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I co=
me,
but haven't time to write.
The Palais Royale is a heave=
nly
place, so full of bijouterie and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted
because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn'=
t allow
it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are tres magnifique. I've seen the
imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale=
and
pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and
yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor=
, and kissed his hand to the people =
as he
passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and=
a
mounted guard before and behind.
We often walk in the Tuileri=
es
Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me
better. Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small
rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dea=
d,
and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so
Frenchy.
Our rooms are on the Rue de
Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant
street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too
tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is
altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew-- except Laurie, whose
manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light me=
n,
however, the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I wo=
n't find
fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.
Next week we are off to Germ=
any
and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give =
you hasty
letters. I keep my diary, and try to `remember correctly and describe clear=
ly
all that I see and admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, =
and
with my sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribb=
les.
Adieu, I embrace you tenderl=
y. VOTRE
AMIE
HEIDELBERG
My dear Mamma,
Having a quiet hour before we
leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is =
very
important, as you will see.
The sail up the Rhine was
perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get Father's old
guidebooks and read about it. I haven't words beautiful enough to describe =
it. At
Coblenz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on t=
he
boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock F=
lo
and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up,=
and hid behind the curtains, but s=
ly
peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the m=
ost
romantic thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortre=
ss opposite,
moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.
When they were done we threw
down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the
invisible ladies, and go laug=
hing
away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of
the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I lau=
ghed
at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, f=
or
he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm g=
oing
to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.
The baths at Nassau were very
gay, so was Baden-Baden, wher=
e Fred
lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when
Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite
agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I s=
aw
Goeth's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous Ariadne. It was ve=
ry
lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I
didn't like to ask, as everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo wo=
uld
tell me all about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know
anything, and it mortifies me.
Now comes the serious part, =
for
it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly tha=
t we
all got quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a traveling frie=
ndship
till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight
walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than =
fun.
I haven't flirted, Mother, tr=
uly,
but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't hel=
p it
if people like me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't c=
are
for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will sh=
ake
her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", =
but I've
made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I li=
ke
him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enou=
gh,
and very rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his fa=
mily
would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred,=
generous
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I
suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable stree=
t,
not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid =
luxury,
such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen t=
he
plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place,=
with
its park, great house, lovely
grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I'd rather =
have
it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind=
. I
may be mercenary, but I hate
poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of =
us
must marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make
everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You =
may
be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, a=
nd
in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let =
me
do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last
week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said noth=
ing,
but little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side=
of
the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who vent=
ures
to speak tome. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us a=
nd
then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about `ein
wonderschones Blondchen', Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat=
so
savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff
Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one m=
ight
guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
Well, last evening we went u=
p to
the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us th=
ere
after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking=
about
the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens m=
ade by
the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, =
for
the view was divine, so while=
the
rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray st=
one
lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I f=
elt
as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Meckar rolling
through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and =
waiting
for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that something was
going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but
quite cool and only a little excited.
By-and-by I heard Fred's voi=
ce,
and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so
troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He =
said
he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So=
he
was going at once on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was
very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute beca=
use
he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake,
"I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?"
I didn't promise, but I look=
ed
at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but mes=
sages
and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I =
know
he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had
promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for is is a
rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall =
soon
meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, than=
k you,"
when he says "Will you, please?"
Of course this is all very
private, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about=
me,
remember I am your `prudent Amy', and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Sen=
d me
as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you fo=
r a
good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.
Ever your AMY
"Jo, I'm anxious about
Beth."
"Why, Mother, she has
seemed unusually well since the babies came."
"It's not her health th=
at
troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind,=
and
I want you to discover what it is."
"What makes you think s=
o,
Mother?"
"She sits alone a good
deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying
over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad one=
s,
and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn=
't
like Beth, and it worries me."
"Have you asked her abo=
ut
it?'
"I have tried once or
twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked so distressed that I
stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait =
for
long."
Mrs. March glanced at Jo as =
she
spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquie=
tude
but Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, "I th=
ink
she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidge=
ts,
without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's
eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting s=
he's
a woman."
"So she is. Dear heart,=
how
fast you do grow up," returned her mother with a sigh and a smile.
"Can't be helped, Marme=
e,
so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop=
out
of the nest, one by one. I pr=
omise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."
"It's a great comfort, =
Jo.
I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too fee=
ble
and Amy too young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always re=
ady."
"Why, you know I don't =
mind
hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is sple=
ndid
in fine works and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the carpets ar=
e to
be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing
herself abroad, but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."
"I leave Beth to your
hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner tha=
n to
anyone else. Be very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks =
about;
her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't hav=
e a
wish in the world."
"Happy woman! I've got
heaps."
"My dear, what are
they?"
"I'll settle Bethy's
troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll
keep." And Jo stitched away, =
span>with
a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at
least.
While apparently absorbed in=
her
own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, final=
ly
settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incide=
nt
gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart
did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when
she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on=
her
sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often
dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected
attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some =
one
passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out,
"All serene! Coming in tonight."
Beth started, leaned forward,
smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, th=
en
said softly as if to herself, "How strong and well and happy that dear=
boy
looks."
"Hum!" said Jo, st=
ill
intent upon her sister's face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it
came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window le=
dge.
Beth whisked it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that=
made
her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring
something about needing more paper.
"Mercy on me, Beth loves
Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of
the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamed of
such a thing. What will Mother say? I wonder if her..." there Jo stopp=
ed and
turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again,
how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him!" And she shook her h=
ead
threateningly at the picture of the mischievous- looking boy laughing at her
from the wall. "Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg
married and a mamma, Amy
flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense
enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute with=
her
eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and
said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No thank you, sir, you=
're
very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So you need=
n't
write touching notes and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a b=
it
of good, and I won't have it."
Then she sighed, and fell in=
to a
reverie from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to
take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie
flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been
peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's. Therefore, no one thought of imagi=
ning
that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impressio=
n had
prevailed in the family of late that `our boy' was getting fonder than ever=
of
Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and scolded violent=
ly
if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages
which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfact=
ion of
saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated `philandering', and wouldn't
allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impend=
ing
danger. When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a mon=
th,
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo,=
who
took great interest in the alternations of hop, despair, and resignation, w=
hich
were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when
Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing
passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided
the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned
studious, and gave out that h=
e was
going to `dig', intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the
young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, =
and eloquent
glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she
preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the fo=
rmer
could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were le=
ss
manageable.
Things were in this state wh=
en
the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had n=
ever
done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have =
seen
nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind =
to
her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with h=
er
at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course or
romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on the sofa =
and
Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip, f=
or
she depended on her weekly `spin', and he never disappointed her. But that
evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside =
her
with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an
account of some exciting cricket match,&nb=
sp;
though the phrases, `caught off a tice', `stumped off his ground'',<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> and `the leg hit for three', were =
as
intelligible to her as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon
seeing it, that she saw a cer=
tain
increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner,=
that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent--minded, and s=
ettled
the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender=
.
"Who knows? Stranger th=
ings
have happened," thought Jo, as
she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he
will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only lo=
ve
each other. I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way."
As everyone was out of the w=
ay
but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all
speed. But where should she go? And burning to lay herself upon the shrine =
of
sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.
Now, the old sofa was a regu=
lar
patriarch of a sofa--long, br=
oad,
well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls
had slept and sprawled on it as babies,&nb=
sp;
fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it =
as
children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it =
as
young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner =
had
always been Jo's favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows that adorn=
ed the
venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and
furnished with a knobby button at each end. This repulsive pillow was her
especial property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a ste=
rn
preventive of too much slumber.
Laurie knew this pillow well,
and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully
pummeled with it in former days when romping was allowed, and now frequently
debarred by it from the seat he most coveted next ot Jo in the sofa corner.=
If `the
sausage' as the called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approa=
ch
and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child who da=
red
disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not bee=
n in
her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and with =
both
arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, La=
urie
exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction...
"Now, this is filling at
the price."
"No slang," snapped
Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it,
and coasting onto the floor, =
it
disappeared in a most mysterious manner.
"Come, Jo, don't be tho=
rny.
After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting
and ought to get it."
"Beth will pet you. I'm
busy."
"No, she's not to be
bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly l=
ost
your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows=
at
him?"
Anything more wheedlesome th=
an
that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched `her boy' by turning=
on
him with a stern query, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal t=
his
week?"
"Not one, upon my word.
She's engaged. Now then."
"I'm glad of it, that's=
one
of your foolish extravagances, sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continu=
ed
Jo reprovingly.
"Sensible girls for who=
m I
do care whole papers of pins won't let me send them `flowers and things', so
what can I do? My feelings need a` vent'."
"Mother doesn't approve=
of
flirting even in fun, and you do flirt desperately, Teddy."
"I'd give anything if I
could answer, `So do you'. As I can't,&nbs=
p;
I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little ga=
me,
if all parties understand that it's only play."
"Well, it does look
pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels
awkward in company not to do as everybody else id doing, but I don't seem to
get on", said Jo, forget=
ting
to play mentor.
"Take lessons of Amy, s=
he
has a regular talent for it."
"Yes, she does it very
prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some peo=
ple
to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in
the wrong place."
"I'm glad you can't fli=
rt.
It's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be
jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, som=
e of
the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They d=
on't
mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them
afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy."
"They do the same, and =
as
their tongues are the sharpest, you
fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly=
, they
would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you b=
lame
them."
"Much you know about it,
ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and
flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls =
are
never talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman. Bless your innoce=
nt
soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would
astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum
girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin...
"Out upon you, fie upon you, Bold-faced jig!"
It was impossible to help laughing =
at the
funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of
womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which
fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that `young Laurence' =
was
regarded as a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by
their daughters, and flattered
enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him, so she watched him
rather jealously, fearing he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she
confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenl=
y to
her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a
`went', Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the `pretty, modest girls' =
whom
you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."
"You really advise
it?" And Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merri=
ment
in his face.
"Yes, I do, but you'd b=
etter
wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for
the place meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever the mode=
st
girl may be." And Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had al=
most
escaped her.
"That I'm not!"
acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he
dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo's apron tassel round his finger.
"Mercy on us, this will
never do," thought Jo, adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying
for some music, and always like yours."
"I'd rather stay here,
thank you."
"Well, you can't, there
isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be
ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?"
retorted Jo, quoting certain =
rebellious
words of his own.
"Ah, that depends on who
wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.
"Are you going?"
demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.
He fled at once, and the min=
ute
it was well, "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped =
away
to return no more till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon.
Jo lay long awake that night,
and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to
Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were
asleep," sobbed Beth.
"Is it the old pain, my
precious?'
"No, it's a new one, bu=
t I
can bear it." And Beth tried to check her tears.
"Tell me all about it, =
and
let me cure it as I often did the other."
"You can't, there is no
cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cr=
ied
so despairingly that Jo was frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I c=
all
Mother?"
"No, no, don't call her,
don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and `poor' my head. I=
'll
be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will." Jo obeyed, but as her hand w=
ent
softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was
very full and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that
hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so
though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in
her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
"Yes, Jo," after a
long pause.
"Wouldn't it comfort yo=
u to
tell me what it is?"
"not now, not yet."=
;
"Then I won't ask, but
remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if
they can."
"I know it. I'll tell y=
ou
by-and-by."
"Is the pain better
now?"
"Oh, yes, much better, =
you
are so comfortable, Jo."
"Go to sleep, dear. I'll
stay with you."
So cheek to cheek they fell
asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen
neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ill=
s.
But Jo had made up her mind,=
and
after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother=
.
"You asked me the other=
day
what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as
they sat along together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for =
a change."
"Why, Jo?" And her
mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.
With her eyes on her work Jo
answered soberly, "I want something new. I feel restless and anxious t=
o be
seeing, doing, and learning m=
ore
than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up=
, so
as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my win=
gs."
"Where will you hop?&qu=
ot;
"To New York. I had a
bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for
some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather ha=
rd to
find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."
"My dear, go out to ser=
vice
in that great boarding house!" And Mrs. March looked surprised, but not
displeased.
"It's not exactly going=
out
to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your friend--the kindest soul that ever
lived--and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate
from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do. It's honest
work, and I'm not ashamed of it."
"Nor I. But your
writing?"
"All the better for the
change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if I haven=
't
much time there, I shall brin=
g home
quantities of material for my rubbish."
"I have no doubt of it,=
but
are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?'
"No, Mother."
"May I know the
others?"
Jo looked up and Jo looked d=
own,
then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and
wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."
"Then you don't care for
him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?' And Mrs. March loo=
ked
anxious as she put the question.
"Mercy, no! I love the =
dear
boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything m=
ore,
it's out of the question."
"I'm glad of that,
Jo."
"Why, please?'
"Because, dear, I don't
think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your
frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you would both rebel if you we=
re
mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to ment=
ion hot
tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which n=
eeds
infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."
"That's just the feelin=
g I
had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning =
to
care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't =
fall
in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"
"You are sure of his
feeling for you?"
The color deepened in Jo's
cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain
which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it i=
s so,
Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had
better go away before it comes to anything."
"I agree with you, and =
if
it can be managed you shall go."
Jo looked relieved, and afte=
r a
pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of
management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still
hope."
"AH, Jo, mothers may di=
ffer
in their management, but the hope is the same in all--the desire to see the=
ir
children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave t=
o enjoy
your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is
something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help ;=
her.
For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she s=
eems
brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'
"Yes, she owned she had=
a
trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I k=
now
it," And Jo told her little story.
Mrs. March shook her head, a=
nd
did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated=
her
opinion that for Laurie's sake Jo should go away for a time.
"Let us say nothing abo=
ut
it to him till the plan is settled,
then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth
must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laur=
ie
to her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of =
this
romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's =
used
to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."
Jo spoke hopefully, but could
not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this `little trial' would be ha=
rder
than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his `lovelornity' as ea=
sily
as heretofore.
The plan was talked over in a
family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and prom=
ised
to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent,=
and
such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new
scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect
and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her
restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and
trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He =
had
been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accuse=
d of
turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am, and I mean this one shall stay
turned."
Jo was very much relieved th=
at
one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations
with a lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was do=
ing
the best for all.
"One thing I leave in y=
our
especial care," she said, the night before she left.
"You mean your
papers?" asked Beth. "No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't
you?"
"Of course I will, but I
can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."
"It won't hurt him, so
remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order.&qu=
ot;
"I'll do my best, for y=
our
sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.
When Laurie said good-by, he
whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on =
you,
so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home."
New York, November
Dear Marmee and Beth,
I'm going to write you a reg=
ular
volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travel=
ing
on the continent. When I lost=
sight
of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny
drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or
less, hadn't diverted my mind=
, for
I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they
opened their mouths to roar.
Soon the sun came out, and
taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with=
all
my heart.
Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so ki=
ndly
I felt at home at once, even =
in
that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor--all
she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so=
I
can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower oppo=
site
atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The
nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's
private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoile=
d, I
fancy, but they took to me after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've =
no
doubt I shall make a model governess.
I am to have my meals with t=
he
children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for =
I am
bashful, though no one will b=
elieve
it.
"Now, my dear, make
yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the
drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a g=
reat
anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My ro=
oms
are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make =
it.
There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your
evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happ=
y as
you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off =
she
bustled, leaving me to settle
myself in my new nest.
As I went downstairs soon af=
ter,
I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and =
as I
stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lum=
ber
up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out=
of
her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk
away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so.
The little back is too young to haf such heaviness."
Wasn't it good of him? I like
such things, for as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned i=
t to
Mrs. K., that evening, she la=
ughed,
and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always doing thin=
gs
of that sort."
Mrs. K. told me he was from
Berlin, very learned and good, but
poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little
orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his si=
ster,
who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, a=
nd I
was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars=
. There
is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and =
then
I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.
After tea and a go-to-bed ro=
mp
with the little girls, I attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet eveni=
ng
chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it onc=
e a
week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.
Tuesday Eve
Had a lively time in my semi=
nary
this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really
thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try
gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still.
After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlew=
ork
like little Mabel `with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd
learned to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, Kennst D=
u Das
Land, like a big bumblebee. I=
t was
dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lift=
ing
one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer =
was
there, and while he arranged =
his
books, I took a good look at him. A regular German--rather stout, with brown
hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sha=
rp
or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn'=
t a
really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked
him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a
gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one
shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to
turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received hi=
m like
an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out =
in a
loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"
I was just going to run, whe=
n I
caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see
what was going on.
"Me wants me Bhaer,&quo=
t;
said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him.
"Thou shalt haf thy Bha=
er.
Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor,
catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that sh=
e had
to stoop her little face to kiss him.
"Now me mus tuddy my
lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table,
opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and penci=
l,
and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little=
fat
finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed =
myself
by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly =
look
that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than
German.
Another knock and the appear=
ance
of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained
through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls=
kept
laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish
tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have mad=
e it
hard for him to keep sober.
Both seemed to try his patie=
nce
sorely, for more than once I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is
not so, you haf not attend to what I say," and once there was a loud r=
ap,
as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclama=
tion,
"Prut! It all goes bad this day."
Poor man, I pitied him, and =
when
the girls were gone, took just one more peep to see if he survived it. He
seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there w=
ith his
eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his
pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fall=
en
asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has=
a
hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'cl=
ock
dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see w=
hat
sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable
and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm tall, m=
y efforts
at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after =
my
face cooled off, I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table w=
as
full, and every-- one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especia=
lly, who seemed to be eating on time, f=
or
they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done.
There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each oth=
er,
married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't thin=
k I
shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden
lady, who looks as if she had something in her.
Cast away at the very bottom=
of
the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very
inquisitive, deaf old gentlem=
an on
one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had =
been
here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he =
had a
great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have
horrified `her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like `to see folks eat with a
relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food a=
fter
teaching idiots all day.
As I went upstairs after din=
ner,
two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I
heard one say low to the other, "Who's the new party?"
"Governess, or somethin=
g of
that sort."
"What the deuce is she =
at
our table for?"
"Friend of the old
lady's."
"Handsome head, but no
style."
"Not a bit of it. Give =
us a
light and come on."
I felt angry at first, and t=
hen
I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, i=
f I haven't
style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the
elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordina=
ry
people!
Thursday
Yesterday was a quiet day sp=
ent
in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, wit=
h a
light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the Pr=
ofessor.
It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironin=
g in
the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and fol=
lows
him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, =
as
he is very fond of children, though a `bacheldore'. Kitty and Minnie Kirk
likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the
plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. =
The
younger men quiz him, it seems, call
him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his
name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and takes it so good-na=
turedly
that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways.
The maiden lady is a Miss
Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner today (for I =
went
to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see
her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and see=
ms
friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good
society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.
I was in our parlor last eve=
ning
when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't ther=
e,
but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily. "T=
his
is Mamma's friend, Miss March."
"Yes, and she's jolly a=
nd
we like her lots," added Kitty,
who is and `enfant terrible'.
We both bowed, and then we
laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a com=
ical
contrast.
"Ah, yes, I hear these
naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I
come," he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little
wretches.
I promised I would, and he
departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for to=
day
as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my
umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big
blue sock on one hand and a darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at =
all
ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock=
and
all, saying in his loud, chee=
rful
way...
"You haf a fine day to =
make
your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle."
I laughed all the way
downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to think of the poor man hav=
ing
to mend his own clothes. The German gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning
hose is another thing and not so pretty.
Nothing has happened to write
about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, =
and
who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if=
I
would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I
enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her a=
bout
us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such
favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully. When I =
got
back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in,
and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back,
Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with =
seedcakes,
as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.
"We are playing
nargerie," explained Kitty.
"Dis is mine
effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair.
"Mamma always allows us=
to
do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, =
Mr.
Bhaer?" said Minnie.
The `effalunt' sat up, looki=
ng
as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you =
my
wort it is so, if we make too=
large
a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly."
I promised to do so, but left
the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious
frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and
when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the Professor,
while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and=
the
little `koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans we=
re
as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?
I'm so fond of writing, I sh=
ould
go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've
used thin paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long
letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small
news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I kn=
ow.
Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? =
Take
good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to everyone=
. From
your faithful Jo.
P.S. On reading over my lett=
er,
it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I am always interested in odd people, a=
nd I
really had nothing else to write about. Bless you!
DECEMBER
My Precious Betsey,
As this is to be a
scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give
you some idea of my goings on, for though quiet, they are rather amusing, f=
or
which, oh, be joyful! After w=
hat
Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral agricult=
ure,
my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. =
They
are not so interesting tome as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them,=
and
they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my o=
wn
heart, for the mixture of German and American spirit in the produces a cons=
tant
state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spen=
t in
the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary,
with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun!
We are very good friends now,
and I've begun to take lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came
about in such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, =
Mrs.
Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room where she was
rummaging.
"Did you ever see such a
den, my dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I've tur=
ned
everything upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new
handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago."
I went in, and while we work=
ed I
looked about me, for it was `a den' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere=
, a
broken meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a
ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white
mice adorned the other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of=
the
dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room.=
After
a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird=
cage,
one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holde=
r.
"Such a man!" laug=
hed
good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag bay. "I suppose=
the
others are torn up to rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails. I=
t's
dreadful, but I can't scold him. He's so absent-minded and goodnatured, he =
lets
those boys ride over him roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending,=
but
he forgets to give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he com=
es
to a sad pass sometimes."
"Let me mend them,"
said I. "I don't mind it, and he needn't know. I'd like to, he's so ki=
nd
to me about bringing my letters and lending books."
So I have got his things in
order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks, for they were boggled ou=
t of
shape with his queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find =
it out,
but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to
others has interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to lear, for
Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sit=
ting
near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what =
he
said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I
thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling over a verb,
and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look
up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made sig=
ns
to Tina not to betray him.
"So!" he said, as I
stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, I peep at you, and t=
his
is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for
German?"
"Yes, but you are too b=
usy.
I am too stupid to learn," I blundered out, as red as a peony.
"Prut! We will make the
time, and we fail not to find the sense. At efening I shall gif a little le=
sson
with much gladness, for look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay."
And he pointed to my work `Yes, ' they say to one another, these so kind
ladies, `he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we do, he will nev=
er
observe that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his but=
tons
grow out new when they fall, =
and
believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah! But I haf an eye, and I s=
ee
much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this. Come, a little lesson then=
and
now, or no more good fairy works for me and mine."
Of course I couldn't say
anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the
bargain, and we began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a
grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have b=
een
torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of
mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried
both ways, and when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he j=
ust threw
the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself
disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was
scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself ha=
rd,
when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory.
"Now we shall try a new
way. You and I will read these pleasant little MARCHEN together, and dig no
more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble."=
He spoke so kindly, and open=
ed
Hans Andersons's fairy tales so invitingly before me, that I was more asham=
ed
than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to
amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word
will express it) with all my might,
tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration of the
minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and
stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way,
"Das ist gut!' Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German, gif me your
ear." And away he went, =
rumbling
out the words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as w=
ell
as hear. Fortunately the story was the CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER, which is droll,
you know, so I could laugh, a=
nd I
did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he wa=
s so
earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical. After that we got on
better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying sui=
ts
me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as=
one
gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it =
yet,
which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christ=
mas,
for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.
I'm glad Laurie seems so hap=
py
and busy, that he has given up smoking and lets his hair grow. You see Beth
manages him better than I did. I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only do=
n't
make a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of human
naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't time to write much, and
that will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.
JANUARY
A Happy New Year to you all,=
my
dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name=
of
Teddy. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for i didn't get it till night and=
had
given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing abou=
t a parcel,
meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed, for I'd had a `kind of feeling' th=
at you
wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room a=
fter
tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I =
just
hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat down on the
floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd=
way.
The things were just what I wanted, and all the better for being made inste=
ad
of bought. Beth's new `ink bib' was capital, and Hannah's box of hard
gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you
sent, Marmee, and read carefu=
lly
the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!
Speaking of books reminds me
that I'm getting rich in that line, for on New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me=
a
fine Shakespeare. It is one he
values much, and I've often admired it,&nb=
sp;
set up in the place of honor with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imag=
ine
how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own
name in it, "from my fri=
end
Friedrich Bhaer".
"You say often you wish=
a
library. Here I gif you one, for between these lids (he meant covers) is ma=
ny
books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much, for the study of
character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it w=
ith
your pen."
I thanked him as well as I
could, and talk now about `my library', as if I had a hundred books. I never
knew how much there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer=
to
explain it to me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name. It isn't pronounced
either Bear or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as =
only
Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and =
hope
you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, Father his wise head. I admire bot=
h, and
feel rich in my new `friend Friedrich Bhaer'.
Not having much money, or
knowing what he'd like, I got several little things, and put them about the
room, where he would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or f=
unny,
a new standish on his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has on=
e,
or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for =
his
blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls `mouchoirs'. I made it li=
ke
those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted
feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his
mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all. =
Poor
as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the house, and not a soul
here, from the French laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad=
of
that.
They got up a masquerade, and
had a gay time New Year's Eve. I didn't mean to go down, having no dress. B=
ut
at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton
lent me lace and feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in =
with
a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of =
the
silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most o=
f them,
and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a `nice derange=
ment
of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile'. I enjoyed it very
much, and when we unmasked it=
was
fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell another that=
he
knew I'd been an actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at on=
e of
the minor theaters. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, a=
nd
Tina was Titania, a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was
`quite a landscape', to use a
Teddyism.
I had a very happy New Year,
after all, and when I thought it over in my room, I felt as if I was gettin=
g on
a little in spite of my many failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more in=
terest
in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever =
your
loving... Jo
Though very happy in the soc=
ial
atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bre=
ad
and made it sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors=
. The
purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and
ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. S=
he
saw that money conferred power, therefore,
she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more =
than
life.
The dream of filling home wi=
th
comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to=
an
organ in her bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than eno=
ugh, so that she might indulge in the l=
uxury
of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.
The prize-story experience h=
ad
seemed to open a way which might, after long traveling and much uphill work,
lead to this delightful chateau en Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched=
her
courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened
stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal he=
ro,
she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and =
the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the `up a=
gain
and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so she scrambled u=
p on
the shady side this time and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what
was far more precious than the moneybags.
She took to writing sensation
stories, for in those dark ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She
told no one, but concocted a
`thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor of =
the
Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had a womanly
instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the
worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her b=
est,
and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous,
bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a
disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentleme=
n, sitting
with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of th=
em
took the trouble to remove on her appearance. somewhat daunted by this
reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment..=
.
"Excuse me, I was looki=
ng
for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."
Down went the highest pair of
heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar
between his fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of
nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo
produced her manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.
"A friend of mine desir=
ed
me to offer--a story--just as an experiment--would like your opinion--be gl=
ad
to write more if this suits."
While she blushed and blunde=
red,
Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with=
a
pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the =
neat
pages.
"Not a first attempt, I
take it?" observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one
side, and not tied up with a ribbon--sure sign of a novice.
"No, sir. She has had s=
ome
experience, and got a prize for a tale in the BLARNEYSTONE BANNER."
"Oh, did she?" And=
Mr.
Dashwood gave JO a quick look, which
seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to=
the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more=
of
this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but I'll
run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
Now, Jo did not like to leave
it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all, but, under the circumstances,
there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly
tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then=
she
was both, for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged a=
mong
the gentlemen that her little fiction of `my friend' was considered a good
joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he
closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return,
she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorou=
sly,
and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for =
next
week.
When she went again, Mr.
Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake
than before, which was agreea=
ble
and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his man=
ners,
so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.
"We'll take this (edito=
rs
never say I), if you don't object to a few alterations. It's too long, but
omitting the passages I've marked will make it just the right length,"=
he
said, in a businesslike tone.
Jo hardly knew her own MS ag=
ain,
so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a
tender patent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that=
it
might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was
surprised to find that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully p=
ut
in as ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.
"But, Sir, I thought ev=
ery
story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my
sinners repent."
Mr. Dashwoods's editorial
gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her `friend', and spoken=
as
only an author could.
"People want to be amus=
ed,
not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell nowadays." Which was not
quite a correct statement, by=
the
way.
"You think it would do =
with
these alterations, then?"
"Yes, it's a new plot, =
and
pretty well worked up--language good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's
affable reply.
"What do you--that is, = what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.<= o:p>
"Oh, yes, well, we give
from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes
out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him. Such
trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.
"Very well, you can have
it," said Jo, handing back the story with a satisfied air, for after t=
he
dollar-a-column work, even
twenty-five seemed good pay.
"Shall I tell my friend=
you
will take another if she has one better than this?" asked Jo, unconsci=
ous
of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.
"Well, we'll look at it.
Can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mi=
nd
the moral. What name would your friend like to put on it?" in a carele=
ss
tone.
"None at all, if you
please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and has no nom de plume," =
said
Jo, blushing in spite of herself.
"Just as she likes, of
course. The tale will be out next week. Will you call for the money, or sha=
ll I
send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, <=
/span>who
felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
"I'll call. Good mornin=
g,
Sir."
As she departed, Mr. Dashwood
put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, =
but
she'll do."
Following Mr. Dashwood's
directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge in=
to
the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life preserver
thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her duckin=
g.
Like most young scribblers, =
she
went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies,
nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as=
much
accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular a=
bout
such trifles as grammar, punctuation,
and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill h=
is
columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the
real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being
offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.
She soon became interested in
her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was
making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as =
the
weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she d=
id
not tell them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not
approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward.=
It
was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr. Das=
hwood
had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wo=
nder
kept his word.
She thought it would do her =
no
harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashame=
d,
and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute w=
hen
she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
But Mr. Dashwood rejected any
but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowi=
ng
up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and=
art,
police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo
soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of t=
he
tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, =
she
set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to f=
ind
material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not mast=
erly
in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes.=
She
excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons.=
She
studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all ab=
out
her. She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old t=
hat they
were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited
opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely, but unconscio=
usly
she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman=
's
character. She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its
influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and
unsubstantial food, and was f=
ast
brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with
the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.
She was beginning to feel ra=
ther
than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings =
set
her to studying and speculating about her own. a morbid amusement in which
healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its
own punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.
I don't know whether the stu=
dy
of Shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a w=
oman
for what was honest, brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary he=
roes
with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who
interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their
conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters,
wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo took him at his =
word,
for she coolly turned round and studied him--a proceeding which would have =
much
surprised him, had he know it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in =
his
own conceit.
Why everybody liked him was = what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in= no respect what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was = as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as natur= ally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving somet= hing away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often watched = him, trying to discover the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence w= hich worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, `it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how k= ind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.<= o:p>
His very clothes seemed to
partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They looked as if they were=
at
ease, and liked to make him comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was sugges=
- tive
of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy
pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out f=
ull.
His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like
other people's.
"That's it!" said =
Jo
to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good will toward one=
's
fellow men could beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shov=
eled
in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhae=
r.
Jo valued goodness highly, b=
ut
she also possessed a most feminine respect for intellect, and a little
discovery which she made about the Professor added much to her regard for h=
im. He
never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had
been a man much honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a
countryman came to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation
with Miss Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better becaus=
e Mr.
Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was an honored
Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life =
was
much beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it. Anoth=
er
and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner.
Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which Jo would have had no ch=
ance
of seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious=
girl,
and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor.=
She
took them with her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.
Jo went prepared to bow down=
and
adore the mighty ones whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar =
off.
But her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recov=
er
from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after a=
ll.
Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet wh=
ose
lines suggested an ethereal being fed on `spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devo=
uring
his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turnin=
g as
from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters with =
the
regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with one of the =
Madame
de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably
satirizing her, after outmaneuvering her in efforts to absorb the profound
philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the
loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebriti=
es, forgetting their mollusks and glac=
ial
periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices =
with
characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a
second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen of the British nobility pre=
sent
happened to be the most ordinary man of the party.
Before the evening was half
over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to
recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his eleme=
nt, and presently several of the
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles beyond =
Jo's
comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods,=
the
Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing `evolved =
from
her inner consciousness' was a bad headache after it was all over. It dawned
upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put toget=
her
on new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than
before, that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and
intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or
metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half
painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift =
into
time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.
She looked round to see how =
the
Professor liked it, and found him looking at her with the grimest expression
she had ever seen him wear. He shook his head and beckoned her to come away,
but she was fascinated just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, =
and
kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely =
upon
after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffide=
nt
man and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but
too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to seve=
ral
other young people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic
pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some
inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the
display was over that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.
He bore it as long as he cou=
ld,
but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest
indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth--an eloqu=
ence
which made his broken English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a
hard fight, for the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was be=
aten
and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got ri=
ght
again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new. God wa=
s not
a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. =
She felt
as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused,
outtalked but not one whit convinced,
Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
She did neither, but she
remembered the scene, and gave the Professor her heartiest respect, for she
knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscie=
nce would
not let him be silent. She began to see that character is a better possessi=
on
than money, rank, intellect, or beauty,&nb=
sp;
and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to b=
e,
`truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend friedrich Bhaer was not =
only
good, but great.
This belief strengthened dai=
ly.
She valued his esteem, she co=
veted
his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the w=
ish
was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out of a coc=
ked
hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a pap=
er
soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to t=
ake
off.
"It's evident he doesn't
look in his glass before coming down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he
said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of t=
he
ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to
read her the Death of Wallenstein.
She said nothing at first, f=
or
she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny
happened, so she left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot =
all about
it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. A=
fter
the reading came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mo=
od
that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The Pr=
ofessor
didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of =
mild
surprise that was irresistible ...
"Mees Marsch, for what =
do
you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no respect for me, that you go on =
so
bad?"
"How can I be respectfu=
l,
Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?" said Jo.
Lifting his hand to his head,
the absent-minded Professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat,
looked at it a minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merr=
y bass
viol.
"Ah! I see him now, it =
is
that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see
you, if this lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him."
But the lesson did not go at=
all
for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, a=
nd
unfolding it, said with great disgust, "I wish these papers did not co=
me
in the house. They are not for children to see, nor young people to read. I=
t is
not well, and I haf no patience with those who make this harm."
Jo glanced at the sheet and =
saw
a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villian, and a
viper. She did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over was =
not
one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was=
the
Volcano. It was not, however, and
her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had been and one of her
own tales in it, there would have been no name to betray her. She had betra=
yed
herself, however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the Prof=
essor
saw a good deal more than people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met
her down among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke=
of
it, he asked no questions in =
spite
of a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred to him that she was doi=
ng
what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say to himself,
"It is none of my business. I've no right to say anything," as ma=
ny
people would have done. He only remembered that she was young and poor, a g=
irl
far away from mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her
with an impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put =
out
his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in=
a
minute, but not a trace of it=
appeared
in his face, and by the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded=
, he
was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely...
"Yes, you are right to =
put
it from you. I do not think that good young girls should see such things. T=
hey
are made pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to
play with than this bad trash."
"All may not be bad, on=
ly
silly, you know, and if there is a demand for it, I don't see any harm in
supplying it. Many very respectable people make an honest living out of what
are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathers so
energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin.
"There is a demand for
whisky, but I think you and I do not care to sell it. If the respectable pe=
ople
knew what harm they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. Th=
ey haf
no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No,
they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this
thing."
Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and
walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking=
as
if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat
had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.
"I should like much to =
send
all the rest after him," muttered the Professor, coming back with a
relieved air.
Jo thought what a blaze her =
pile
of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily=
on
her conscience at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, &qu=
ot;Mine
are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried,&q=
uot;
and taking up her book, she said, =
span>with
a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be very good and proper
now."
"I shall hope so,"=
was
all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look =
he
gave her made her feel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in large=
type
on her forehead.
As soon as she went to her r=
oom,
she got out her papers, and
carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr.
Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see
how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the
Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor
stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.
"They are trash, and wi=
ll
soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is more sensational than the last.
I've gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of mone=
y. I
know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being
horribly ashamed of it, and what should I do if they were seen at home or M=
r.
Bhaer got hold of them?"
Jo turned hot at the bare id=
ea,
and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afi=
re
with the blaze.
"Yes, that's the best p=
lace
for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, t=
han
let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as=
she
watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery
eyes.
But when nothing remained of=
all
her three month's work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo
looked sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about=
her
wages.
"I think I haven't done
much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time," she said, after a
long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any
conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right, and
didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I ca=
n't
help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn't been so particular ab=
out
such things."
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing t=
hat,
thank God that `Father and Mother were particular'. and pity from your heart
those who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles which =
may
seem like prison walls to impatient youth,=
but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in
womanhood.
Jo wrote no more sensational
stories, deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation,
but going to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood=
, Miss
Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale which might have been =
more
properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her
doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance
felt as ill at ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in=
the
stiff and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem =
to
several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with=
Mr.
Dashwood that morals didn't sell.
Then she tried a child's sto=
ry,
which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enoug=
h to
demand filthy lucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make it w=
orth
her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his
mission to convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she
liked to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty
boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did not go=
to
a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did go as rewarde=
d by
every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they
departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So noth=
ing came
of these trials, land Jo corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very
wholesome humility...
"I don't know anything.
I'll wait until I do before I try again, and meantime, `sweep mud in the
street' if I can't do better, that's honest, at least." Which decision
proved that her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.
While these internal revolut=
ions
were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, =
and
if she sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed it but
Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to=
see
if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and =
he
was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she ha=
d given
up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of =
her
right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, w=
as met
no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which =
assured
him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not
pleasant.
He helped her in many ways,
proving himself a true friend, and
Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own
life.
It was a pleasant winter and=
a
long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry
when the time came. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair st=
uck
straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturb=
ed
in mind.
"Going home? Ah, you are
happy that you haf a home to go in," he said, when she told him, and s=
at
silently pulling his beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on =
that
last evening.
She was going early, so she =
bade
them all goodbye overnight, a=
nd
when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to co=
me
and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if=
you
do, for I want them all to know my friend."
"Do you? Shall I
come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she
did not see.
"Yes, come next month.
Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new."=
"That is your best frie=
nd,
of whom you speak?" he said in an altered tone.
"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm
very proud of him and should like you to see him."
Jo looked up then, quite
unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing the=
m to
one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that =
she
might find Laurie more than a `best friend', and simply because she
particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involunt=
arily
began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it h=
ad
not been for Tina on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of he=
r. Fortunately
the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant,
hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again =
from
that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially...
"I fear I shall not make
the time for that, but I wish the friend much success, and you all happines=
s.
Gott bless you!" And with that, he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina,
and went away.
But after the boys were abed=
, he
sat long before his fire with the tired look on his face and the `heimweh',=
or
homesickness, lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she =
sat
with the little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he lean=
ed
his head on his hands a minute, and
then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not
find.
"It is not for me, I mu=
st
not hope it now," he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a gr=
oan.
Then, as if reproach- ing himself for the longing that he could not repress=
, he
went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom=
-used
meerschaum, and opened his Plato.
He did his best and did it
manfully, but I don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or
even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and chil=
d at
home.
Early as it was, he was at t=
he
station next morning to see Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solita=
ry
journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a=
bunch
of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, "W=
ell,
the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a
friend worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."
Whatever his motive might ha=
ve
been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor,
and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence o=
f a
Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh,=
so
proud--Mr. and Mrs. March, Jo=
hn and
Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which
boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any
after-triumphs.
"I've got to stay for t=
his
confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet=
me
as usual, girls?" Laurie=
said,
as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over=
. He
said `girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old
custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anythi=
ng,
and answered warmly...
"I'll come, Teddy, rain=
or
shine, and march before you, =
playing
`Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."
Laurie thanked her with a lo=
ok
that made her think in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say
something, and then what shall I do?"
Evening meditation and morni=
ng
work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be va=
in
enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every
reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed tim=
e,
hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A cal=
l at
Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still furt=
her
fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure loomi=
ng
in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.
"Where's the jew's-harp,
Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"I forgot it." And=
Jo
took heart again, for that salutation could not be called loverlike.
She always used to take his =
arm
on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a =
bad
sign, but talked on rapidly a=
bout
all sorts of faraway subjects, till
they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the
grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language,=
and
now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one=
of the
wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, "Now you
must have a good long holiday!"
"I intend to."
Something in his resolute to=
ne
made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression =
that
assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with=
an
imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!"
"I will, and you must h=
ear
me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for
both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
"Say what you like then.
I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, bu=
t he
was in earnest, and meant to `have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he
plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voic=
e that
would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady =
. ..
"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've
been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now I'm
going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any
longer."
"I wanted to save you t=
his.
I thought you'd understand... began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than=
she
expected.
"I know you did, but the
girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean
yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned
Laurie, entrenching himself b=
ehind
an undeniable fact.
"I don't. I never wante=
d to
make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could.&qu=
ot;
"I thought so. It was l=
ike
you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to
please you, and I gave up bil=
liards
and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped
you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was a ch=
oke
that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared =
his
`confounded throat'.
"You, you are, you're a=
great
deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of =
you,
I don't know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't
change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't."
"Really, truly, Jo?&quo=
t;
He stopped short, and caught
both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon for=
get.
"Really, truly, dear.&q=
uot;
They were in the grove now,
close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips,
Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his lif=
e the
fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down on the mossy post,
and stood so still that Jo was frightened.
"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, =
so
desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you
wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for peo=
ple to
make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly=
but
remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when =
he
had comforted her so long ago.
"They do sometimes,&quo=
t;
said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't believe it's the right so=
rt
of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer.
There was a long pause, whil=
e a
blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rust=
led
in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of=
the
stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."
He started as if he had been
shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me
that, Jo, I can't bear it now!"
"Tell what?" she
asked, wondering at his violence.
"That you love that old
man."
"What old man?"
demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
"That devilish Professor
you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do
something desperate." And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he
clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.
Jo wanted to laugh, but
restrained herself and said warmly,
for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything =
bad,
but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't f=
ly
into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abus=
e my
Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else."
"But you will after a
while, and then what will become of me?"
"You'll love someone el=
se
too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble."
"I can't love anyone el=
se,
and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never!
Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.
"What shall I do with
him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she
expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and
listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said,
hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothi=
ng about
love.
Seeing a ray of hope in that
last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his=
arm
on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face=
. Now
that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's
part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with
eyes full of love and longing, and
lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung
from him? She gently turned his head away,=
saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow =
for
her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that=
you
and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wi=
lls
would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..."=
Jo
paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous
expression.
"Marry--no we shouldn't=
! If
you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anythi=
ng
you like."
"No, I can't. I've tried
and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We
don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but=
we won't
go and do anything rash."
"Yes, we will if we get=
the
chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.
"Now do be reasonable, =
and
take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's en=
d.
"I won't be reasonable.=
I
don't want to take what you call `a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it
only makes it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart."
"I wish I hadn't."=
There was a little quiver in
Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all =
his
persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never
been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear!
Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it,
and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!&q=
uot;
Not until months afterward d=
id
Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resoluti=
on
she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never coul=
d.
It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless=
and
cruel.
"I can't say `yes' trul=
y,
so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me
for it..." she began solemnly.
"I'll be hanged if I
do!" And Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at =
the
very idea.
"Yes, you will!"
persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely
accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fi=
ne
house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be
ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see-an=
d I
shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling,=
and
I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't =
done
it, and everything would be horrid!"
"Anything more?" a= sked asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.<= o:p>
"Nothing more, except t=
hat
I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty =
too
well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."
"I know better!" b=
roke
in Laurie. "You think so now, <=
/span>but
there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him
tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and=
I
shall have to stand by and see it." And the despairing lover cast his =
hat
upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face =
had
not been so tragic.
"Yes, I will live and d=
ie
for him, if her ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you
must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy.
"I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of y=
ou
to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very =
fond
indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it
the better for both of us--so now!"
That speech was like gunpowd=
er.
Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with
himself, then turned sharply =
away,
saying in a desperate sort of tone,
"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."
"Oh, where are you
going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.
"To the devil!" was
the consoling answer.
For a minute Jo's heart stood
still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much
folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was=
not
one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thoug=
ht
of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and =
coat
into his boat, and row away w=
ith
all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race=
. Jo
drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow
trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.
"That will do him good,=
and
he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dar=
e to
see him." she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she=
had
murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I m=
ust
go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love
Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her=
. Oh
dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's
dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she =
went
straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then bro=
ke
down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old
gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it
difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she
would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be
forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of har=
m's
way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he
would confess.
When Laurie came home, dead
tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and
kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat
together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard =
work
for the old man to ramble on as usual,&nbs=
p;
and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last
year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost. He bore it =
as
long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play. The window's we=
re
open, and Jo, walking in the =
garden
with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played =
the
`SONATA PATHETIQUE', and play=
ed it
as he never did before.
"That's very fine, I da=
re
say, but it's sad enough to make one cry. Give us something gayer, lad,&quo=
t;
said Mr. Laurence, whose kind=
old
heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.
Laurie dashed into a livelier
strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through
bravely, if in a momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calli=
ng, "Jo, dear, come in. I want
you."
Just what Laurie longed to s=
ay,
with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended
with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.
"I can't stand this,&qu=
ot;
muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a =
kind
hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, &quo=
t;I know,
my boy, I know."
No answer for an instant, th=
en
Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?"
"Jo herself."
"Then there's an end of
it!" And he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion,
for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's
pity.
"Not quite. I want to s=
ay
one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence
with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?&q=
uot;
"I don't intend to run =
away
from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as =
long
as I like," interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone.
"Not if you are the
gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the
only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you
go?"
"Anywhere. I don't care
what becomes of me." And Laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grat=
ed
on his grandfather's ear.
"Take it like a man, and
don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, =
and
forget it?"
"I can't."
"But you've been wild to
go, and I promised you should when you got through college."
"Ah, but I didn't mean =
to
go alone!" And Laurie walked fast through the room with an expression
which it was well his grandfather did not see.
"I don't ask you to go
alone. There's someone ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the
world."
"Who, Sir?' stopping to
listen.
"Myself."
Laurie came back as quickly =
as
he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute,
but--you know-Grandfather--"
"Lord help me, yes, I do
know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and t=
hen
with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan.
It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> keeping hold of the young man, as =
if
fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him.
"Well, sir, what is
it?" And Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice.=
"There is business in
London that needs looking after. I meant you should attend to it, but I can=
do
it better myself, and things =
here
will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost
everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at
any time."
"But you hate traveling,
Sir. I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful
for the sacrifice, but much
preferred to go alone, if he went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfe=
ctly
well, and particularly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found
his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own
devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts =
he
would leave behind him, he said stoutly,&n=
bsp;
Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. =
It
will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is
almost as easy as sitting in a chair."
A restless movement from Lau=
rie
suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and
made the old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burde=
n. I go because I think you'd feel ha=
ppier
than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave =
you
free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends=
in
London and Paris, and should like to visit them. Meantime you can go to Ita=
ly,
Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's
content."
Now, Laurie felt just then t=
hat
his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the
sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his
closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oas=
is
or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then sai=
d,
in a spiritless tone, "J=
ust as
you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do."
"It does to me, remember
that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest =
use
of it. Promise me that, Laurie."
"Anything you like,
Sir."
"Good," thought the
old gentleman. "You don't care now,&n=
bsp;
but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of
mischief, or I'm much mistaken."
Being an energetic individua=
l,
Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being
recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary =
for preparation,
Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moo=
dy,
irritable, and pensive by turns, lost
his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time to playing
tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at =
her
from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and
oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he
never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs.
March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was=
a
relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very
uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the `poor, dear fellow was going =
away
to forget his trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly at=
their
delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his
fidelity like his love was unalterable.
When the parting came he
affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed
inclined to assert themselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but
they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till =
Mrs.
March kissed him, whit a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling =
that
he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting =
the
afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minu=
te
after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came b=
ack,
put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face t=
hat
made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic.
"Oh, Jo, can't you?&quo=
t;
"Teddy, dear, I wish I
could!"
That was all, except a little
pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, "It's all right, nev=
er
mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right,
and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her
hard answer, she felt as if s=
he had
stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him,=
she
knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.
When Jo came home that sprin=
g,
she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed a=
ware
of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by abse=
nce,
it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sist=
er's
face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there=
was
a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly ref=
ined
away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably
pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon=
the
first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appe=
ared
to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo fora time for=
got
her fear.
But when Laurie was gone, and
peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had
confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and
proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away f=
rom
home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as
Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down =
to
the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fre=
sh
sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.
It was not a fashionable pla=
ce,
but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends,
preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and =
Jo
too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to e=
ach
other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they exited in
those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and t=
he
feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
separation was not far away.
They did feel it, yet neither
spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us
there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a v=
eil had
fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift =
it
up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to
speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to
see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain=
to
her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell
itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister
really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her m=
ind
during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's =
lap,
while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her fee=
t.
One day Beth told her. Jo
thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat
looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint
color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and=
the
hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been
collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly
drifting away form her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon
the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for
seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that
there was hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know=
it.
I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't."
There was no answer except h=
er
sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved,=
Jo
did not cry. She was the weaker then, land Beth tried to comfort and sustain
her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ea=
r.
"I've known it for a go=
od
while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. =
Try
to see it so and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it
is."
"Is this what made you =
so
unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, land keep it to your=
self
so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, =
but
glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.
"Yes, I gave up hoping
then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and
would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong =
and full
of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and the=
n I
was miserable, Jo."
"Oh, Beth, and you didn=
't
tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bea=
r it
all alone?"
Jo's voice was full of tender
reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must h=
ave
gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and live, and ta=
ke up
her cross so cheerfully.
"Perhaps it was wrong, =
but
I tried to do right. I wasn't sure,
no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been
selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy a=
way,
and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then."
"And I thought you loved
him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say =
all
the truth.
Beth looked so amazed at the
idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "Then you
didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart
full of lovelornity all that while."
"Why, Jo, how could I, =
when
he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I =
do
love him dearly. He is so good to me, how can I help It? But he could never=
be
anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime."
"Not through me," =
said
Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him,&n=
bsp;
and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things,
now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get
well."
"I want to, oh, so much=
! I
try, but every day I lose a little,
and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the ti=
de,
Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped.."
"It shall be stopped, y=
our
tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go.
I'll work and pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everythi=
ng.
There must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take =
you
from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piou=
sly
submissive than Beth's.
Simple, sincere people seldom
speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and
has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason up=
on
or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, =
but
left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure
that they, and they only, cou=
ld
teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. S=
he
did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches,&n=
bsp;
only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more
closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be
weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say,
"I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her. She could only=
sob
out, "I try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the fir=
st
bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with
recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this when we go home?"
"I think they will see =
it
without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed
every day.
"Perhaps not. I've heard
that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they do=
n't
see it, you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinde=
r to
prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stan=
d by
Father and Mother, won't you Jo?"
"If I can. But, Beth, I
don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let
you think it's true." said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, =
and
then said in her quiet way, &=
quot;I
don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, beca=
use
I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling
that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you=
. I
never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of b=
eing
married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stu=
pid
little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never
wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not
afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.&quo=
t;
Jo could not speak, and for
several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping=
of
the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its si=
lvery
breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness=
. A
little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach `peeping' softly =
to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and lo=
oked
at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feat=
hers,
quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to
offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still t=
o be
enjoyed.
"Dear little bird! See,=
Jo,
how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and
handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them=
my
birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me --busy,
quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that
contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fon=
d of
the storm and the wind, flyin=
g far
out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the
lark she write about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping
down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her hea=
rt
is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget
home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away."
"She is coming in the
spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm go=
ing
to have you well and rosy by that time." began Jo, feeling that of all=
the
changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost=
no
effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
"Jo, dear, don't hope a=
ny
more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but en=
joy
being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer mu=
ch, and I think the tide will go out e=
asily,
if you help me."
Jo leaned down to kiss the
tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and bo=
dy
to Beth.
She was right. There was no =
need
of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what
they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying h=
ow
glad she was to be home, and =
when
Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling
Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did=
not
turn as she came in, but her =
mother
stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a
word.
At three o'clock in the
afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade d=
es
Anglais--a charming place, fo=
r the
wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea,=
on
the other by the grand drive, lined
with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many
nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a
sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty Engl=
ish,
lively French, sober Germans, handsome
Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here,
chatting over the news, and criticzing the latest celebrity who has
arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich
Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much
attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive
themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous
flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the
perch behind.
Along this walk, on Christmas
Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somew=
hat
absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed li=
ke
an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination wh=
ich
caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sun=
dry
dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and
orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy
him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young =
man
took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde gi=
rl
in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at t=
he
crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin
Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of
ponies feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a
single young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He st=
ared a
minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hur=
ried
forward to meet her.
"Oh, Laurie, is it real=
ly
you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins and
holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who
hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding =
the
free manners of these `mad English'.
"I was detained by the =
way,
but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am."
"How is your grandfathe=
r?
When did you come? Where are you staying?"
"Very well--last night-=
-at
the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out."
"I have so much to say,=
I
don't know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going =
for
a drive and longing for company. Flo's saving up for tonight."
"What happens then, a
ball?"
"A Christmas party at o=
ut
hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day.
You'll go with us, of course?=
Aunt
will be charmed."
"Thank you. Where
now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding wh=
ich
suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over
the white ponies backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.
"I'm going to the banke=
rs
first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I li=
ke
to feed the peacocks. Have yo=
u ever
been there?"
"Often, years ago, but I
don't mind having a look at it."
"Now tell me all about
yourself. The last I heard of you, <=
/span>your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin." "Yes, I spen=
t a
month there and then joined him in Paris,&=
nbsp;
where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds
plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we got on capitally."
"That's a sociable
arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though s=
he
couldn't tell what.
"Why, you see, he hates=
to
travel, and I hate to keep still, =
span>so
we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he
enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me w=
hen
I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he added, wi=
th a
look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in =
the
old city.
"The dirt is picturesqu=
e,
so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses =
of
the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that
procession to pass. It's going to the Church of St. John."
While Laurie listlessly watc=
hed
the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing
lighted tapers, and some
brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new
sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find =
the
merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handso=
mer
than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of plea=
sure
at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and
graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She coul=
dn't
understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head a=
nd touched
up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglio=
ni
bridge and vanished in the church.
"Que pensez-vous?"=
she
said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality,
since she came abroad.
"That mademoiselle has =
made
good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bow=
ing
with his hand on his heart and an admiring look.
She blushed with pleasure, b=
ut
somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to
give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and t=
ole
her she was `altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on=
the
head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded
indifferent in spite of the look.
"If that's the way he's
going to grow up, I wish he's stay a boy," she thought, with a curious
sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy =
and
gay.
At Avigdor's she found the
precious home letters and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriousl=
y as
they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed =
as
freshly as in June.
"Beth is very poorly,
Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say `stay'. So I
do, for I shall never have another chance like this," said Amy, looking
sober over one page.
"I think you are right,
there. You could do nothing at home,
and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happ=
y,
and enjoying so much, my dear."
He drew a little nearer, and
looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes
weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly =
`my
dear', seemed to assure her t=
hat if
any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently s=
he
laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the
bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, `Ge=
nius
burns!'.
Laurie smiled, took it, put =
it
in his vest pocket `to keep it from blowing away', and listened with intere=
st
to the lively letter Amy read him.
"This will be a regular=
ly
merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the
afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the
ruins of the old fort, and a =
flock
of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. Wh=
ile
Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the
brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natu=
ral
curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothin=
g to
perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few li=
ttle
affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as eve=
r,
with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing whic=
h we
call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in
both carriage and conversation, which
made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petula=
nce
now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her nat=
ive
frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.
Laurie did not read all this
while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and
interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced gi=
rl
standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the
fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a pro=
minent
figure in the pleasant scene.
As they came up onto the sto=
ne
plateau that crowns the hill, Amy
waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the
fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Fran=
ca,
Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea wh=
ich
they say ils Corsica?"
"I remember. It's not m=
uch
changed," he answered without enthusiasm.
"What Jo would give for=
a
sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anx=
ious
to see him so also.
"Yes," was all he
said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater
usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight.
"Take a good look at it=
for
her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself =
all
this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk.
But she did not get it, for
though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only
learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece. So after id=
ling
away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. C=
arrol,
Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.
It must be recorded of Amy t=
hat
she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on =
both
the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as `our b=
oy',
but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natura=
l desire
to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of =
them
with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.
Tarlatan and tulle were chea=
p at
Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the
sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming
little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dain=
ty
devices, which were both
inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes g=
ot
possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque
attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have out little
weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our e=
yes
with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanitie=
s.
"I do want him to think=
I
look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put =
on
Flo's old white silk ball dress, and
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders=
and
golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense=
to
let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like kn=
ot
at the back of her head.
"It's not the fashion, =
but
it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she use=
d to
say, when advised to frizzle, puff,
or braid, as the latest style commanded.
Having no ornaments fine eno=
ugh
for this important occasion, =
Amy
looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surve=
yed
her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chassed down the ro=
om,
admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.
"My new fan just matche=
s my
flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, <=
/span>and
the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only =
had
a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said,
surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.
In spite of this affliction,=
she
looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran--it did
not suit her style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque =
was more
appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long
saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the
chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better =
of
it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish
desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she cou=
ld
not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear
him, and as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned and =
one
hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curt=
ains
was as effective as a well-placed statue.
"Good evening, Diana!&q=
uot;
said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when
they rested on her.
"Good evening,
Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually
debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a
personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bott=
om of
her heart.
"Here are your flowers.=
I
arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a
`sot-bookay', said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that=
she
had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window.
"How kind you are!"
she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have had
something ready for you today, though
not as pretty as this, I'm afraid."
"Thank you. It isn't wh=
at
it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the
silver bracelet on her wrist.
"Please don't."
"I thought you liked th=
at
sort of thing."
"Not from you, it doesn=
't
sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better."
"I'm glad of it," =
he
answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her gloves for her, and aske=
d if
his tie was straight, just as=
he
used to do when they went to parties together at home.
The company assembled in the
long salle a manger that evening was such as one sees nowhere but on the
Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had=
in
Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to
their Christmas ball.
A Russian prince condescende= d to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Haml= et's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, = aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, `a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he m= ight devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a largenosed Jew in tight boo= ts, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his m= ania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voi= ced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain b= ut piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined= the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters.<= o:p>
Any young girl can imagine A=
my's
state of mind when she `took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm.
She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on=
her
native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which
comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are b=
orn
to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis
girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimm=
er
maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed,
which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with
curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the f=
irst
burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her fee=
t to
tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it.
Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, whe=
n he
said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?"
"One usually does at a
ball."
Her amazed look and quick an=
swer
caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.
"I meant the first danc=
e.
May I have the honor?"
"I can give you one if I
put off the Count. He dances devinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an=
old
friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and =
show
Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.
"Nice little boy, but
rather a short Pole to support . .. A daughter of the gods, Devinely tall, and most devinely
fair,"
was all the satisfaction she
got, however.
The set in which they found
themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously
through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarant=
ella
with relish. Laurie resigned her to the `nice little boy', and went to do h=
is
duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible
want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged hers=
elf
till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She sho=
wed
him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rush=
ed
up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa. But his polite regre=
ts
didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw =
Laurie
sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief.
That was unpardonable, and A=
my
took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when
she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment=
's
rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling
face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her
with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit=
and
grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally =
fell
to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half
over, had decided that `little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'=
.
It was a lively scene, for s=
oon
the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas
merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musician=
s fiddled,
tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and t=
hose
who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark
with Davises, and many Jones
gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through
the room like a meteor with a dashing frenchwoman who carped the floor with=
her
pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of
fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor=
's
friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he kne=
w it
or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him.
The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he
`carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he
pranced, his face glowed, his=
bald
head shown, his coattails waved wildly,&nb=
sp;
his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, =
he
wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French
Pickwick without glasses.
Amy and her Pole distinguish=
ed
themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found
himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the whi=
te
slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir
finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was `desolated to leave so
early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his
punishment.
It had been successful, for =
at
three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and
young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise=
, when subjected to the enchantment =
of
beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to =
give
her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to
herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that would do him
good!"
"You look like Balzac's
`FEMME PEINTE PAR ELLE-NENE'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand=
and
held her coffee cup in the other.
"My rouge won't come
off." And Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glo=
ve
with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright.
"What do you call this
stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his
knee.
"Illusion."
"Good name for it. It's
very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"
"It's as old as the hil=
ls.
You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pr=
etty
till now? Stupide!"
"I never saw it on you
before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."
"None of that, it is
forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't loun=
ge,
it makes me nervous."
Laurie sat bold upright, and
meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having `litt=
le
Amy' order him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irresti=
ble
desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lord=
s of
creation show any signs of subjection.
"Where did you learn all
this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical look.
"As `this sort of thing=
' is
rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy,
knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe =
what
is indescribable.
"Well--the general air,=
the
style, the self-possession, the-- the--illusion--you know", laughed
Laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new
word.
Amy was gratified, but of co=
urse
didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in s=
pite
of one's self. I study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little
gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for n=
othing,
and I am used to making the most of my poor little things."
Amy rather regretted that la=
st
sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her better for =
it,
and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made=
the
most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flow=
ers.
Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, now why he filled up her b=
ook
with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in
the most delightful manner, b=
ut the
impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new
impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.
In France the young girls ha=
ve a
dull time of it till they are married, when `Vive la liberte!' becomes their
motto. In America, as everyone
knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with repub=
lican
zest, but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the thr=
one
and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no m=
eans
as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shel=
f as
soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as =
did
a very pretty woman the other day, <=
/span>"I'm
as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm
married."
Not being a belle or even a
fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies we=
re a
year old, for in her little w=
orld
primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved
than ever.
As she was a womanly little
woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed=
in
her children, to the utter
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over =
them
with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of t=
he
help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a
domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been
accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquis=
hed
his comfort for a time, supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would
soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repos=
e.
Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, =
the
house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life `aisy', kept him on
short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small
commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to
embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! They are just asleep a=
fter
worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the
babies." If he hinted at a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a
reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children for pleasure, never=
!"
His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing=
noiselessly
to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the
frequent flight of the presiding genius,&n=
bsp;
who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the n=
est
above. And when he read his paper of an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping=
list
and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only
interested in domestic news.
The poor man was very
uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely=
a
nursery and the perpetual `hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder
whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patie=
ntly
for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles
do--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to
housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an
hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife
singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pret=
ty
girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission mo=
st
successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard
ready, the piano in tune, ple=
nty of
gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
John would have preferred his
own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took=
the
next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society.
Meg rather approved of the n=
ew
arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a =
good
time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking
the children. But by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols
went to sleep at proper hours, leaving
Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her workbasket dull
company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown, comfort=
ably
scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home,
but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being
told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. =
She
was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable
frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domest=
ic
cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too muc=
h devotion
to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were=
all
nerve and no muscle.
"Yes," she would s=
ay,
looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly. John doesn't find me
interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pre=
tty
neighbor, who has no incumbra=
nces.
Well, the babies love me, they don't care if I am thin and pale and haven't
time to crimp my hair, they a=
re my
comfort, and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, w=
on't
he, my precious?"
To which pathetic appeal dai=
sy
would answer with a coo, or D=
emi
with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, wh=
ich
soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics
absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points wi=
th
Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, howev=
er, till
her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the mat=
ter
was, for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.
"I wouldn't tell anyone
except you, Mother, but I really do need advice, for if John goes on much
longer I might as well be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her te=
ars
on Daisy's bib with an injured air.
"Goes on how, my
dear?" asked her mother anxiously.
"He's away all day, and=
at
night when I want to see him, he is
continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have the
hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best =
of
them."
"So are women. Don't bl=
ame
John till you see where you are wrong yourself."
"But it can't be right =
for
him to neglect me."
"Don't you neglect
him?"
"Why, Mother, I thought
you'd take my part!"
"So I do, as far as
sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, Meg."
"I don't see how."=
"Let me show you. Did J=
ohn
ever neglect you, as you call it, =
span>while
you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time?"
"No, but I can't do it =
now,
with two babies to tend."
"I think you could, dea=
r,
and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that
it's Mother who blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?"
"Indeed I will! Speak t=
o me
as if I were little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more th=
an
ever since these babies look to me for everything."
Meg drew her low chair beside
her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women
rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made
them more one than ever.
"You have only made the
mistake that most young wives make-forgotten your duty to your husband in y=
our
love for your children. A very
natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied be=
fore
you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than ever, =
not
separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but sup=
port
them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it wou=
ld
come right in time."
"I'm afraid it won't. I=
f I
ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such=
an
idea. He doesn't see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him with=
out words."
"Make it so pleasant he
won't want to go away. My dear, he's
longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery.=
"
"Oughtn't I to be
there?"
"Not all the time, too = much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him o= ut of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well= as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, an= d he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all."<= o:p>
"You really think so,
Mother?"
"I know it, Meg, for I'=
ve
tried it, and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. W=
hen
you and Jo were little, I wen=
t on
just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself
wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had refused all offers of =
help,
and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as well as I coul=
d,
but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were po=
orly,
and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the
rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw =
my
mistake, and never have been able to got on without him since. That is the
secret of our home happiness. He
does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect=
us
all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursu=
its.
Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together,
always."
"It is so, Mother, and =
my
great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours.
Show me how, I'll do anything you say."
"You were always my doc=
ile
daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the
management of Demi, for the b=
oy
needs training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have of=
ten
proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you may
trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the
exercise, Hannah would enjoy =
the
rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as wel=
l as
busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal t=
here
is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes=
--talk
with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that =
way.
Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand
what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's wor=
k,
for it all affects you and yours."
"John is so sensible, I=
'm
afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and thing=
s."
"I don't believe he wou=
ld.
Love covers a multitude of sins, and
of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't
find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."
"I will. Poor John! I'm
afraid I have neglected him sadly, <=
/span>but
I thought I was right, and he never said anything." "He tried not to be
selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn,&n=
bsp;
I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are a=
pt
to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for t=
he
first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. And no
time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the litt=
le
lives given to them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, f=
or
they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and
temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and =
love
one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachme=
nt, act
upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all." Meg did think it over, found=
it
good, and acted upon it, thou=
gh the
first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the
children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out
that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an =
abject
slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and
occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipli=
ne
with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmne=
ss
of character, we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little to
have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could =
not
change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be
taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too s=
oon
to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook =
to
`wrastle' with `Parpar', he always got the worst of it, yet like the Englis=
hman,
baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave
"No, no," was more
impressive than all Mamma's love pats. A few days after the talk with her
mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a ni=
ce supper,
set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to =
bed
early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately
Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that nigh=
t he
decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told stories and tried every
sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn=
't
shut, and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch=
of
good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-=
awake
expression of countenance. "Will Demi lie still li=
ke a
good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Me=
g,
as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing into
the dining room. "Me has tea!" said
Demi, preparing to join in the revel. "No, but I'll save you =
some
little cakies for breakfast, =
if
you'll go bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?" "Iss!" and Demi sh=
ut
his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day. Taking advantage of the
propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a
smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial adm=
iration.
He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise, "Why, little mother, how gay =
we are
tonight. Do you expect company?" "Only you, dear."<=
o:p> "No, I'm tired of being
dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table=
, no
matter how tired you are, so why shouldn't I when I have the time?' "I do it out of respect=
for
you, my dear," said old-fashioned John. "Ditto, ditto, Mr.
Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to=
him
over the teapot. "Well, it's altogether
delightful, and like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health,
dear." And John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which=
was
of very short duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle=
rattled
mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently ... "Opy doy. Me's
tummin!" "It's that naughty boy.=
I
told him to go to sleep alone, and
here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that
canvas," said Meg, answering the call. "Mornin' now,"
announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his long nightgown gracefully
festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the
table, eyeing the `cakies' with loving glances. "No, it isn't morning y=
et.
You must go to bed, and not trouble poor Mamma. Then you can have the little
cake with sugar on it." "Me loves Parpar,"
said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in
forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to Meg... "If you told him to sta=
y up
there, and go to sleep alone, make
him do it, or he will never learn to mind you." "Yes, of course. Come,
Demi." And Meg led her son away,
feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside
her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as s=
oon
as they reached the nursery. Nor was he disappointed, for
that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into =
his
bed, and forbade any more
promenades till morning. "Iss!" said Demi t=
he
perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar,&nb=
sp;
and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. Meg returned to her place, a=
nd
supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again and
exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar."
"Now this won't do,&quo=
t;
said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. "We
shall never know any peace till that child learns togo to bed properly. You
have made a slave of yourself long enough. Give him one lesson, and then th=
ere
will be an end of it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg."
"He won't stay there, he
never does unless I sit by him."
"I'll manage him. Demi,=
go
upstairs, and get into your bed, as
Mamma bids you."
"S'ant!" replied t=
he
young rebel, helping himself to the coveted `cakie', and beginning to eat t=
he
same with calm audacity.
"You must never say tha=
t to
Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go yourself."
"Go 'way, me don't love
Parpar." And Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection.
But even that refuge proved
unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle =
with
him, John," which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Mamma deser=
ted him,
then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne=
away
by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wra=
th,
but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstair=
s.
The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and
made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his li=
ttle
toga and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young
man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of h=
is
voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as
the post which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no l=
ullaby,
no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire
enlivened the `big dark' which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fea=
r.
This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for `Marmar'=
, as his angry passions subsided, and
recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The=
plaintive
wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran u=
p to
say beseechingly...
"Let me stay with him,
he'll be good now, John."
"No, my dear. I've told=
him
he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he must, if I stay here all
night."
"But he'll cry himself
sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy.
"No, he won't, he's so
tired he will soon drop off and then the matter is settled, for he will
understand that he has got to mind. Don't interfere, I'll manage him."=
"He's my child, and I c=
an't
have his spirit broken by harshness."
"He's my child, and I w=
on't
have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy =
to
me."
When John spoke in that
masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, <=
/span>and
never regretted her docility.
"Please let me kiss him
once, John?"
"Certainly. Demi, say g=
ood
night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking =
care
of you all day."
Meg always insisted upon it =
that
the kiss won the victory, for=
after
it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of
the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
"Poor little man, he's =
worn
out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up, and then go and set Meg's hea=
rt
at rest." thought John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his
rebellious heir asleep.
But he wasn't, for the moment
his father peeped at him, Dem=
i's
eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying
with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."
Sitting on the stairs outside
Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagi=
ning
all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fea=
rs
at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but i=
n a
subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding =
his father's
finger, as if he felt that ju=
stice
was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So
held, John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed =
its
hold, and while waiting had f=
allen
asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's wo=
rk.
As Meg stood watching the two
faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, sa=
ying
in a satisfied tone, "I never need fear that John will be too harsh wi=
th
my babies. He does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for D=
emi
is getting too much for me."
When John came down at last,
expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised=
to
find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to =
read
something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute
that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions,
knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a =
secret
to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear. He read a long
debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lu=
cid
manner, while Meg tried to lo=
ok
deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from
wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her
secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics,=
and
the the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but s=
he
kept these feminine ideas to herself,
and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought
diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what we are coming
to."
John laughed, and watched her
for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers=
on
her hand, and regarded it wit=
h the
genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
"She is trying to like
politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only
fair," thought John the Just, <=
/span>adding
aloud, "That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"=
"My dear man, it's a
bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet."
"I beg your pardon, it =
was
so small, I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes
wear. How do you keep it on?"
"These bits of lace are
fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so." And Meg illustrated by
putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction th=
at
was irresistible.
"It's a love of a bonne=
t,
but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again." And
John kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under t=
he
chin.
"I'm glad you like it, =
for
I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night. I really need =
some
music to put me in tune. Will you, please?"
"Of course I will, with=
all
my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will=
do
you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into y=
our
head, little mother?"
"Well, I had a talk with
Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I
felt, and she said I needed change and less care, so Hannah is to help me w=
ith
the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun=
, just
to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my ti=
me.
It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as
for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to ma=
ke
home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?"
Never mind what John said, or
what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we
have any business to know is that John did not appear to object, judging fr=
om
the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was=
not
all Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of labor
system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, stedfast=
John
brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits a=
nd
composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and
much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelik=
e again,
and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts c=
ame
to the Brookes' now, and everyone found the little house a cheerful place, =
full
of happiness, content, and fa=
mily
love. Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and
pleasant here, it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about h=
er
with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use i=
t in
her great house, full of splendid lonliness, for there were no riotous,
sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of lis own, where there =
was
no place for her.
This household happiness did=
not
come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of
Married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real ho=
me
love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest
cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may
consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little=
sons
and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walk=
ing side
by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in
the true sense of the good old Saxon word,=
the `house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happi=
est
kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but=
as
a wise wife and mother.
He went to Nice intending to stay a=
week,
and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's fami=
liar
presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she
bore a part. He rather missed the `petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed=
a
taste of it again, for no
attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the
sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the
others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeli=
ng
that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more =
than
she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society and =
were
much together, riding, walking, dancing,&n=
bsp;
or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during the g=
ay
season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashi=
on,
they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about ea=
ch
other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers,=
and each felt the truth before a w=
ord
was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the
many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which
womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effor=
t of
any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, tryi=
ng
to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had =
been
cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given =
Amy
all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time=
he felt
that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather
dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowfu=
l,
half-scornful surprise.
"All the rest have gone=
to
Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are
done now, and I am going to V=
alrosa
to sketch, will you come?' said Amy,
as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual about
noon.
"Well, yes, but isn't it
rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered slowly, for the shaded
salon looked inviting after the glare without.
"I'm going to have the
little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but h=
old
your umbrella, and keep your =
gloves
nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, w=
hich
were a weak point with Laurie.
"Then I'll go with
pleasure." And he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked =
it
under her arm with a sharp...
"Don't trouble yourself.
It's no exertion to me, but you don't look equal to it."
Laurie lifted his eyebrows a=
nd
followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs, but when they got into =
the
carriage he took the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do =
but
fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch.
The two never quarreled. Amy=
was
too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped u=
nder
her hatbrim with an inquiring air. She answered him with a smile, and they =
went
on together in the most amicable manner.
It was a lovely drive, along
winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eye=
s.
Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came dow=
n to
them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder=
, sat
piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his fee=
t.
Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, =
laden
with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a capal=
ine
sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as=
she
went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to off=
er
nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough. Gnarled olive trees cov=
ered
the hills with their dusky foliage,
fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed=
the
roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and w=
hite
against the blue Italian sky.
Valrosa well deserved its na=
me,
for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere. They
overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate =
with
a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon
trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, w=
here
seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool grotto =
had
its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected
crimson, white, or pale pink =
roses,
leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the
house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the
balustrade of the wide terrace, whence
one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its
shore.
"This is a regular
honeymoon paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such roses?" asked Amy,
pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume =
that
came wandering by.
"No, nor felt such
thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain
attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reac=
h.
"Try lower down, and pi=
ck
those that have no thorns," said Amy, gathering three of the tiny
cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her. She put them in his
buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them =
with
a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a tou=
ch
of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bit=
ter
melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food
for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny r=
ed
rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that f=
rom
the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the
Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and for a moment he
wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but the next instant his
American common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a
heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came.
"It's good advice, you'd
better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech
amused him.
"Thank you, I will,&quo=
t;
he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest.
"Laurie, when are you g=
oing
to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a
rustic seat.
"Very soon."
"You have said that a d=
ozen
times within the last three weeks."
"I dare say, short answ=
ers
save trouble."
"He expects you, and you
really ought to go."
"Hospitable creature! I
know it."
"Then why don't you do
it?"
"Natural depravity, I
suppose."
"Natural indolence, you
mean. It's really dreadful!" And Amy looked severe.
"Not so bad as it seems,
for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay and plague =
you
a little longer, you can bear=
it
better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently." And Laurie composed himself for a =
lounge
on the broad ledge of the balustrade.
Amy shook her head and opened
her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to
lecture `that boy' and in a minute she began again.
"What are you doing just
now?"
"Watching lizards."=
;
"No, no. I mean what do=
you
intend and wish to do?"
"Smoke a cigarette, if
you'll allow me."
"How provoking you are!=
I
don't approve of cigars and I will only allow it on condition that you let =
me
put you into my sketch. I need a figure."
"With all the pleasure =
in
life. How will you have me, full length or three-quarters, on my head or my
heels? I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself=
in
also and call it `Dolce far niente'."
"Stay as you are, and g=
o to
sleep if you like. I intend to work hard," said Amy in her most energe=
tic
tone.
"What delightful
enthusiasm!" And he leaned against a tall urn with an ir of entire
satisfaction.
"What would Jo say if s=
he
saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the ment=
ion
of her still more energetic sister's name.
"As usual, `Go away, Te= ddy. I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and= a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched = the wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them be= fore, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone be= fore she could study it and the listless expression back again. She watched him = for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as= he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.<= o:p>
"You look like the effi=
gy
of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the
well-cut profile defined against the dark stone.
"Wish I was!"
"That's a foolish wish,
unless you have spoiled your life. You are so changed, I sometimes
think--" There Amy stopped, with
a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speec=
h.
Laurie saw and understood the
affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight i=
nto
her eyes, said, just as he us=
ed to
say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am."
That satisfied her and set at
rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and
she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said...
"I'm glad of that! I di=
dn't
think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money =
at
that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a
husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a
necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun, come and=
lie
on the grass here and `let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in
the sofa corner and told secrets."
Laurie obediently threw hims=
elf
down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the
ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there.
"I'm all ready for the
secrets." And he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in h=
is
eyes.
"I've none to tell. You=
may
begin."
"Haven't one to bless
myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.."
"You have heard all that
has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you
volumes."
"She's very busy. I'm
roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin
your great work of art, Rapha=
ella?'
he asked. changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had
been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.
"Never," she answe=
red,
with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me=
, for
after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave u=
p all
my foolish hopes in despair."
"Why should you, with so
much energy and talent?"
"That's just why, becau=
se
talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be
great, or nothing. I won't be=
a
common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."
"And what are you going=
to
do with yourself now, if I may ask?"
"Polish up my other
talents, and be an ornament to society,&nb=
sp;
if I get the chance."
It was a characteristic spee= ch, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition h= ad a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took= up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.<= o:p>
"Good! And here is where
Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."
Amy preserved a discreet
silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made Laur=
ie
sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questi=
ons.
May I?"
"I don't promise to
answer."
"Your face will, if your
tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feeling=
s,
my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private
opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so lon=
g,
something would have come of it, hey?"
"That's not for me to
say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips would smile, and there was a
traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she knew her power and
enjoyed the knowledge.
"You are not engaged, I
hope?" And Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudde=
n.
"No."
"But you will be, if he
comes back and goes properly down on his knees, won't you?"
"Very likely."
"Then you are fond of o=
ld
Fred?"
"I could be, if I
tried."
"But you don't intend to
try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a =
good
fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied you'd like."
"He is rich, a gentlema=
n,
and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying to be quite cool and
dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sinceri=
ty
of her intentions.
"I understand. Queens of
society can't get on without money,
so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right=
and
proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your
mother's girls."
"True, nevertheless.&qu=
ot;
A short speech, but the quiet
decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young spea=
ker.
Laurie felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of
disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well as=
a
certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled
Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.
"I wish you'd do me the
favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply.
"Do it for me, there's a
dear girl."
"I could, if I tried.&q=
uot;
And she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style.
"Try, then. I give you
leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having someone to tease, after his
long abstinence from his favorite pastime.
"You'd be angry in five
minutes."
"I'm never angry with y=
ou.
It takes two flints to make a fire. You are as cool and soft as snow."=
"You don't know what I =
can
do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly. Your indifferenc=
e is
half affectation, and a good stirring up would prove it."
"Stir away, it won't hu=
rt
me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him.
Regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tire=
d, if that sort of exercise agrees wi=
th
you."
Being decidedly nettled hers=
elf,
and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpe=
ned
both tongue and pencil, and began.
"Flo and I have got a n=
ew
name for you. It's Lazy Laurence. =
span>How
do you like it?"
She thought it would annoy h=
im,
but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "Th=
at's
not bad. Thank you, ladies."
"Do you want to know wh=
at I
honestly think of you?"
"Pining to be told.&quo=
t;
"Well, I despise you.&q=
uot;
If she had even said `I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would
have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent in her
voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly...
"Why, if you please?&qu=
ot;
"Because, with every ch=
ance
for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable.&quo=
t;
"Strong language,
mademoiselle."
"If you like it, I'll go
on."
"Pray do, it's quite
interesting."
"I thought you'd find it
so. Selfish people always like to talk about themselves."
"Am I selfish?" The
question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one
virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.
"Yes, very selfish,&quo=
t;
continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice,
twice as effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you ho=
w,
for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied
with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but
waste time and money and disappoint your friends."
"Isn't a fellow to have=
any
pleasure after a four-year grind?"
"You don't look as if y=
ou'd
had much. At any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as I can see.=
I
said when we first met that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I=
don't
think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably
lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contente=
d to
be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected=
by
wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah you like th=
at
old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't help saying it, with all these
splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and
instead of being the man you ought to be, you are only..." There she
stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it.
"Saint Laurence on a
gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the sentence. But the lectu=
re
began to take effect, for the=
re was
a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured express=
ion
replaced the former indifference.
"I supposed you'd take =
it
so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will, but
the instant we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't liste=
n,
which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and
turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet.
In a minute a hand came down
over the page, so that she could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a
droll imitation of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be
good!"
But Amy did not laugh, for s=
he
was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said
soberly, "Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and whi=
te
as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best
gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see t=
here
are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave yo=
u so
long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"
"So do I!"
The hand vanished as suddenl=
y as
it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even A=
my.
She glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he was lying wi=
th
his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth.
She only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have be=
en a
sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to=
hide
something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute vario=
us
hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind, and told her
what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never
spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the
change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring which was no
ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel th=
eir
eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of=
the
alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was i=
n a voice
that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.
"I know I have no right=
to
talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in =
the
world, you'd be very angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you=
, I couldn't bear to think they shou=
ld be
disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps they would
understand the change better than I do."
"I think they would,&qu=
ot;
came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one.=
"They ought to have told
me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when I should have been more
kind and patient than ever. I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hat=
e her!"
said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time.
"Hang Miss Randal!"
And Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of h=
is
sentiments toward that young lady.
"I beg pardon, I
thought..." And there she paused diplomatically.
"No, you didn't, you kn=
ew
perfectly well I never cared for anyone but Jo," Laurie said that in h=
is
old, impetuous tone, and turn=
ed his
face away as he spoke.
"I did think so, but as
they never said anything about it, <=
/span>and
you came away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to you? W=
hy,
I was sure she loved you dearly."
"She was kind, but not =
in
the right way, and it's lucky for her she didn't love me, if I'm the
good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It's her fault though, and you may te=
ll
her so."
The hard, bitter look came b=
ack
again as he said that, and it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm =
to
apply.
"I was wrong, I didn't
know. I'm very sorry I was so cross,
but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."
"Don't, that's her name=
for
me!" And Laurie put up his hand with a quick gesture to stop the words
spoken in Jo's half-kind, half-reproachful tone. "Wait till you've tri=
ed
it yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the
handful.
"I'd take it manfully, =
and
be respected if i couldn't be loved," said Amy, with the decision of o=
ne
who knew nothing about it.
Now, Laurie flattered himself
that he had borne it remarkably well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, a=
nd
taking his trouble away to live it down alone. Amy's lecture put the Matter=
in
a new light, and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose he=
art
at the first failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as=
if
suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to sle=
ep
again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do you think Jo would
despise me as you do?"
"Yes, if she saw you no=
w.
She hates lazy people. Why don't you do something splendid, and make her lo=
ve
you?"
"I did my best, but it =
was
no use."
"Graduating well, you m=
ean?
That was no more than you ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake. =
It
would have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and money, when
everyone knew that you could do well."
"I did fail, say what y=
ou
will, for Jo wouldn't love me,"
began Laurie, leaning his he=
ad
on his hand in a despondent attitude.
"No, you didn't, and yo=
u'll
say so in the end, for it did you good, and proved that you could do someth=
ing
if you tried. If you'd only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon=
be
your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."
"That's impossible.&quo=
t;
"Try it and see. You
needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, `Much she knows about such things'=
. I
don't pretend to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more t=
han
you'd imagine. I'm interested in other people's experiences and
inconsistencies, and though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my=
own
benefit. Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, =
for
it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one=
you
want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake up and be a m=
an
in spite of that hardhearted girl."
Neither spoke for several
minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the =
last
touches to the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked. Prese=
ntly
she put it on his knee, merely saying, "How do you like that?"
He looked and then he smiled=
, as
he could not well help doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy fig=
ure
on the grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a ci=
gar,
from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's hea=
d.
"How well you draw!&quo=
t;
he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a
half-laugh, "Yes, that's me."
"As you are. This is as=
you
were." And Amy laid another sketch beside the one he held.
It was not nearly so well do=
ne,
but there was a life and spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it
recalled the past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young man's
face as he looked. Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and co=
at
were off, and every line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding
attitude was full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued,
stood arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot impatien=
tly
pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that h=
ad
mastered him. In the ruffled mane. The rider's breezy hair and erect attitu=
de,
there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that contras=
ted
sharply with the supine grace of the `DOLCE FAR NIENTE' sketch. Laurie said
nothing but as his eye went from one to the other, Amy say him flush up and
fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had
given him. That satisfied her, and without waiting for him to speak, she sa=
id,
in her sprightly way...
"Don't you remember the=
day
you played Rarey with Puck, a=
nd we
all looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, an=
d I
sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the other
day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."
"Much obliged. You've
improved immensely since then, and
I congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in ` a honeymoon paradise' that
five o'clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?"
Laurie rose as he spoke,
returned the pictures with a smile and a bow and looked at his watch, as if=
to
remind her that even moral lectures should have an end. He tried to resume =
his former
easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had b=
een
more effacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his
manner, and said to herself . ..
"Now, I've offended him.
Well, if it does him good, I'm glad, if it makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but
it's true, and I can't take back a word of it."
They laughed and chatted all=
the
way home, and little Baptist, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamois=
elle
were in charming spirits. But both felt ill at ease. The friendly frankness=
was
disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent
gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
"Shall we see you this
evening, mon frere?" asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt's door.
"Unfortunately I have an
engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle."=
And Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which
became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly=
and
warmly...
"No, be yourself with m=
e,
Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd rather have a hearty English
handshake than all the sentimental salutations in France."
"Goodbye, dear." A=
nd
with these words, uttered in the tone she liked, Laurie left her, after a
handshake almost painful in its heartiness.
Next morning, instead of the
usual call, Amy received a note which made her smile at the beginning and s=
igh
at the end.
My Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt=
, and
exult within yourself, for `Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the
best of boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissf=
ul
honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell him=
so,
with my congratulations.
Yours gratefully, Telemachus=
"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone,=
"
said Amy, with an approving smile. The next minute her face fell as she gla=
nced
about the empty room, adding, with an involuntary sigh, "Yes, I am gla=
d,
but how I shall miss him."
When the first bitterness was
over, the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully,
helping one another by the increased affection which comes to bind househol=
ds tenderly
together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or
her part toward making that last year a happy one.
The pleasantest room in the
house was set apart for Beth, and
in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the little
worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books found their way the=
re,
Mother's easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest sketches, and every day Meg
brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth.
John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of
keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for. Old
Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious
appetite, dropping tears as s=
he
worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters, see=
ming
to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
Here, cherished like a house=
hold
saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could
change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life,=
she
tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fin=
gers
were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the
school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from he=
r window
for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many doll=
s,
penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks =
for
picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant
climbers of the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as =
it
were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who=
sat
above there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and
needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little fac=
es
always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little
letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
The first few months were ve=
ry
happy ones, and Beth often used to look round, and say "How beautiful =
this
is!" as they all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and
crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, =
in
his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and
comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little
chapel, where a paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must
learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make
resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of th=
ose
who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the
frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke =
or
read.
It was well for all that this
peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come, for
by-and-by, Beth said the needle was `so heavy', and put it down forever.
Talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrow=
fully
perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, =
such
long, long nights, such aching
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced to =
see
the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry,
"Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A sad ecl=
ipse
of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both
were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion over, the old peace r=
eturned
more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong, and thoug=
h she
said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first
pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,
trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the
river.
Jo never left her for an hour
since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slep=
t on
a couch in the room, waking o=
ften
to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who sel=
dom
asked for anything, and `tried not to be a trouble'. All day she haunted the
room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of =
any
honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now =
her heart
received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly
taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit=
that
can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the
hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts
undoubtingly.
Often when she woke Jo found
Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beg=
uile
the sleepless night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow te=
ars dropped
through the transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts
too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was tr=
ying
to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to com=
e,
by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.=
Seeing this did more for Jo =
than
the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any
voice could utter. For with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart soft=
ened
by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's
life--uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which `smell
sweet, and blossom in the dust', the
self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in
heaven, the true success which is possible to all.
One night when Beth looked a=
mong
the books upon her table, to =
find
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to
bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims's
Progress, she found a little paper,
scribbled over in Jo's hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred
look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
"Poor Jo! She's fast
asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave. She shows me all her things, and I
don't think she'll mind if I look at this", thought Beth, with a glanc=
e at
her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up=
the
minute the log fell apart.
MY BETH
Sitting patient in the shado=
w Till
the blessed light shall come, A
serene and saintly presence Sanctifies our troubled home. Earthly joys and =
hopes
and sorrows Break like ripples on the strand Of the deep and solemn river W=
here
her willing feet now stand.
O my sister, passing from me=
, Out of human care and strife, Leave me, as a gift, those virtues=
Which
have beautified your life. Dear, bequeath me that great patience Which has
power to sustain A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit In its prison-house of pa=
in.
Give me, for I need it sorel=
y, Of that courage, wise and sweet, Which has made the path of duty Gr=
een
beneath your willing feet. Give me that unselfish nature, That with charity devine Can pardon
wrong for love's dear sake-- Meek heart, forgive me mine!
Thus our parting daily loset=
h Something
of its bitter pain, And while
learning this hard lesson, My=
great
loss becomes my gain. For the touch of grief will render My wild nature more
serene, Give to life new
aspirations, A new trust in t=
he
unseen.
Henceforth, safe across the
river, I shall see forever mo=
re A
beloved, household spirit Waiting for me on the shore. Hope and faith, born=
of
my sorrow, Guardian angels sh=
all
become, And the sister gone b=
efore
me By their hands shall lead me home.
Blurred and blotted, faulty =
and
feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to
Beth's face, for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and t=
his
seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death wou=
ld
not bring the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between =
her hands,
the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping B=
eth
slept.
"Not asleep, but so hap=
py,
dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been =
all
that to you, Jo?" she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.
"OH, Beth, so much, so
much!" And Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.
"Then I don't feel as if
I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do
right. And now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a
comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped
them."
"More than any one in t=
he
world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel
that I don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't
part us, though it seems to."
"I know it cannot, and I
don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still, to love =
and
help you more than ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to
Father and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them, an=
d if
it's hard to work alone, remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll =
be
happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, =
for
love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes t=
he
go easy."
"I'll try, Beth." =
And
then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and
better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the ble=
ssed
solace of a belief in the immortality of love.
So the spring days came and =
went
, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early,
and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired b=
ut trustful
child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her te=
nderly
through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom except in books do the
dying utter memorable words, =
see
visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many
parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sl=
eep.
As Beth had hoped, the `tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before
dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew h=
er
last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.
With tears and prayers and
tender hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain
would never mar again, seeing=
with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patien=
ce
that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to
their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.
When morning came, for the f=
irst
time in many months the fire was out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was
very still. But a bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the
snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed=
in
like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of
painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and=
thanked
God that Beth was well at last.
Amy's lecture did Laurie goo=
d,
though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for
when women are the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice ti=
ll
they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Th=
en
they act upon it, and, if it succeeds,&nbs=
p;
they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, they
generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was=
so
dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the cli=
mate
of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There=
was
nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragg=
ed him
back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the lon=
ging
grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that h=
ad
made the deepest impression, "I despise you." "Go and do
something splendid that will make her love you."
Laurie turned the matter ove=
r in
his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been
selfish and lazy, but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indu=
lged
in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blight=
ed
affections were quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a
faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo
wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing so=
mething
which should prove that a girl's no had not spoiled his life. He had always
meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite unnecessary. He had only =
been
waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred. That
being done, he felt that he was ready to `hide his stricken heart, and still
toil on'.
As Goethe, when he had a joy=
or
a grief, put it into a song, =
so
Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem
which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Theref=
ore
the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and
ordered him off, he went to V=
ienna,
where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination =
to
distinguish himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in
music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that
the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his mind was
not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the
middle of a plaintive strain, he
would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christm=
as
ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to
tragic composition for the time being.
Then he tried an opera, for =
nothing
seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties
beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supp=
ly
him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory
turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, wou=
ld
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the m=
ost unsentimental
aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in a bandana, barricading herse=
lf
with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la
Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was
endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and h=
e had
to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" a=
nd a
clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.
When he looked about him for
another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory prod=
uced
one with the most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it =
always
had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily be=
fore
his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue
ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for
his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her
with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have
annihilated any mortal woman.
Thanks to this inspiration, =
he
got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, =
or
roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which
seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much,=
but he thought a great deal and was
conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's
genius simmering, perhaps. I'=
ll let
it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the wh=
ile
that it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it
simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his d=
esultory
life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body,=
and
finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a
composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed=
at the
Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat
staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and bach, who stared benignly back
again. Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the la=
st
fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...
"She is right! Talent i=
sn't
genius, and you can't make it so. That music has taken the vanity out of my=
as
Rome took it out of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall=
I
do?"
That seemed a hard question =
to
answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if
ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for `going to the devil', as he once=
forcibly
expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is
proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor
fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and
confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look
honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's
well," kept him safe and steady.
Very likely some Mrs. Grundy
will observe, "I don't believe it, boys will be boys, young men must s=
ow
their wild oats, and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you
don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many
miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising
the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be b=
oys,
the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they mu=
st.
But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and
keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing that t=
hey
believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manlie=
st in
good women's eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while=
we
may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and
sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhear=
ted
little lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves and are not
ashamed to own it.
Laurie thought that the task=
of
forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his
great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believ=
e it
at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are curio=
us and
contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie=
's
heart wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that
astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to
remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for
it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and ful=
l of
a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from suc=
h a
tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost lov=
e,
but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow t=
hat warmed
and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to
confess that the boyish passion was slowly subbsiding into a more tranquil
sentiment, very tender, a lit=
tle
sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a
brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.
As the word `brotherly' pass=
ed
through his mind in one of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the
picture of Mozart that was before him...
"Well, he was a great m=
an,
and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy."=
;
Laurie did not utter the wor=
ds,
but he thought them, and the next instant kissed the little old ring, sayin=
g to
himself, "No, I won't! I
haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why then...
Leaving his sentence unfinis=
hed,
he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not sett=
le
to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn=
't
she, wouldn't she, and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an
answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of
impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point,=
for
Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word =
love
again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a
little corner of his ghart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she
desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the
spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That w=
ould
be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let=
her
feel lonely, homesick or anxious.
"So I will, at once. Po=
or
little girl, it will be a sad going home for her, I'm afraid." And Lau=
rie
opened his desk, as if writin=
g to
Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some wee=
ks
before.
But he did not write the let=
ter
that day, for as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something w=
hich
changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, pa=
ssports,
and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and in
another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of
her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away
inside. with a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letter=
s,
smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stoo=
d a
minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off,
laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass=
at
Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
overwhelmed with affliction, =
this
seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing lette=
rs
to charming young ladies.
The letter went very soon,
however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it =
in
the most delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famou=
sly,
and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early
spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back =
to
Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to g=
o to
Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just =
then
she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to
avoid the quizzical eyes of `out boy'.
Fred Vaughn had returned, and
put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank
you," but now she said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily,
for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that somethin=
g more
than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled h=
er
heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good
fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and
Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously=
as
her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for
money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could tak=
e it
back, it sounded so unwomanly. She
didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't c=
are
to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman.=
She
was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and w=
as
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were
very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It w=
as
not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, a=
nd
needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have
made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and gla=
d to
have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls=
, so
there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.
If all brothers were treated=
as
well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of bei=
ngs
than they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subject=
s,
she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for =
him,
and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidence=
s,
and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are
complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pocket=
s,
read and reread diligently, c=
ried
over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint
that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did gr=
ow a
little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good
deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying natur=
e, I
dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at
Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart kn=
ight
carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his ey=
es,
or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the
arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last
fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.
Her aunt thought that she
regretted her answer to Fred, and
finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think =
what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt.
That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to hims=
elf, with a venerable air . ..
"I was sure she would t=
hink
better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been through it all, and I can
sympathize."
With that he heaved a great
sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet =
up
on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously.
While these changes were goi=
ng
on abroad, trouble had come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was
failing never reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, for the he=
at
had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerl=
and,
by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly
submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for s=
ince
it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence
soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, =
and
every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and =
comfort
her.
He did come very soon, for t=
he
same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took =
some
days to reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestria=
ns,
and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope =
and
suspense.
He knew Vevay well, and as s=
oon
as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour,
where the Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair that the
whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde
mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsier would give himself =
the
pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur coul=
d not
wait even a `flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to fi=
nd
mademoiselle himself.
A pleasant old garden on the
borders of the lovely lake, w=
ith
chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow =
of
the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low
wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself
with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her h=
ead
on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why
Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor s=
ee
him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garde=
n.
He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever
seen before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely sugges=
ted
love and sorrow, the blotted
letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain
and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed
pathetic to Laurie, for he had
given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the rec=
eption
she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw =
him,
for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakab=
le
love and longing...
"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I =
knew
you'd come to me!"
I think everything was said =
and
settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the
dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one c=
ould
comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was =
the
only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy. He did
not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left th=
e rest
to silence.
In a minute Amy went back to=
her
place, and while she dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered pape=
rs, finding in the sight of sundry wel=
l-worn
letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down
beside her, amy felt shy agai=
n, and
turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting.
"I couldn't help it, I =
felt
so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you. It was such a surprise =
to
look up and find you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come,&qu=
ot;
she said, trying in vain to s=
peak
quite naturally.
"I came the minute I he=
ard.
I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Bet=
h,
but I can only feel, and..." He could not get any further, for her too=
turned
bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to l=
ay
Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did
not dare, so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that =
was
better than words.
"You needn't say anythi=
ng,
this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I
mustn't wish her back, but I =
dread
the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now,=
for
it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go rig=
ht
back, need you?"
"Not if you want me,
dear."
"I do, so much. Aunt and
Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so
comfortable to have you for a little while."
Amy spoke and looked so like=
a
homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all =
at
once, and gave her just what she wanted--the petting she was used to and the
cheerful conversation she needed.
"Poor little soul, you =
look
as if you'd grieved yourself half sick! I'm going to take care of you, so d=
on't
cry any more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly for y=
ou
to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that
Amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pa=
ce
up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at =
ease
upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,=
a
familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her
alone.
The quaint old garden had
sheltered many pairs of lovers, and
seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing =
but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of the=
ir
words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked,=
or
rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to
time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away, Amy fe=
lt
as if she left her burden of lonliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau
garden.
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw t=
he
girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to
herself, "Now I understa=
nd it
all--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never
thought of such a thing!"
With praiseworthy discretion,
the good lady said nothing, a=
nd
betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and
begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occu=
pied
with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than h=
er
usual success.
At Nice, Laurie had lounged =
and
Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, ridin=
g, boating, or studying in the most
energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed his exam=
ple
as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to the climat=
e,
and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own
recovered health and spirits.
The invigorating air did them
both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as
bodies. They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the
everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive
fancies, and moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of
aspiring ideas, tender hopes,=
and
happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and =
the
grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little
children, love one another.&q=
uot;
In spite of the new sorrow, =
it
was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by=
a
word. It took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the cure of
his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consol=
ed
himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almo=
st
the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossibl=
e to
love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first wooing had been=
of
the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon ;it as if through a long vis=
ta
of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not asham=
ed
of it, but put it away as one=
of
the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful wh=
en
the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and si=
mple
as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling
Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answ=
er
long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he
knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little pa=
ssion
has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, =
so
Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the
utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part =
of
his new romance.
He had rather imagined that =
the
denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the m=
ost
graceful and decorus manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the=
matter
was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floa=
ting
about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the =
Alps
of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other,
pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless =
blue
sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats t=
hat
look like white-winged gulls.
They had been talking of
Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up =
at
Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it =
was
a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as
their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pa=
use
that fell between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his o=
ars
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sa=
ke
of saying something . .
"You must be tired. Res=
t a
little, and let me row. It will do me good, for since you came I have been
altogether lazy and luxurious."
"I'm not tired, but you=
may
take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly =
in
the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather
liked the arrangment.
Feeling that she had not men=
ded
matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her
face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, =
and
though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the
boat went smoothly through the water.
"How well we pull toget=
her,
don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then.
"So well that I wish we
might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly.
"Yes, Laurie," very
low.
Then they both stopped rowin=
g,
and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness=
to
the dissolving views reflected in the lake.
It was easy to promise
self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were
purified by a sweet example. But when the helpful voice was silent, the dai=
ly
lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but lonliness =
and
grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she `comfort
Father and Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister, how could she `make t=
he
house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have
deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the w=
orld
could she `find some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of
the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind,
hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, f=
or
it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made
heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people se=
emed
to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried mo=
re than
Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble and =
hard
work.
Poor Jo, these were dark day=
s to
her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending =
all
her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasur=
es, and
the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't
meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something
desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself, =
when
her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mi=
nd
which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.
But someone did come and help
her, though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once because they wore
familiar shapes and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Of=
ten
she started up at night, thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of th=
e little
empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, "Oh,
Beth, come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms=
in
vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's
faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but =
the
patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders =
of a
greater grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to hear=
t in
the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened=
grief
and strengthned love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked=
more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
When aching heart was a litt=
le
comforted, troubled mind likewise found help, for one day she went to the
study, and leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a
tranquil smile, she said very
humbly, "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she
did, for I'm all wrong."
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and bo= th arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and did not fear to ask for it.<= o:p>
Then, sitting in Beth's litt=
le
chair close beside him, Jo told her troubles, the resentful sorrow for her
loss, the fruitless efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that ma=
de
life look so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She =
gave
him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found
consolation in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together=
not
only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve e=
ach
other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times
there in the old study which Jo called `the church of one member', and from
which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more
submissive spirit. For the parents who had taught one child to meet death
without fear, were trying now=
to
teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
Other helps had Jo--humble,
wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving
her, and which she slowly learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths n=
ever
could be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over b=
oth,
and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little =
mop
and the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and givi=
ng
the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cozy, which
was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it till
Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand...
"You thoughtful creeter,
you're determined we shan't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't
say much, but we see it, and the Lord will bless you for't, see ef He
don't."
As they sat sewing together,=
Jo
discovered how much improved her sister Meg was, how well she could talk, h=
ow
much she knew about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how hap=
py she
was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each othe=
r.
"Marriage is an excelle=
nt
thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have=
, if
I tried it?" said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in the
topsy-turvy nursery.
"It's just what you nee=
d to
bring out the tender womanly half of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestn=
ut
burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love will
make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will fall off.&qu=
ot;
"Frost opens chestnut
burrs, ma`am, and it takes a good shake to bring them down. Boys go nutting,
and I don't care to be bagged by them," returned Jo, pasting away at t=
he
kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herse=
lf
on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was gla=
d to
see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her
opinion by every argument in her power, and the sisterly chats were not was=
ted,
especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is t=
he
best opener of some hearts, a=
nd
Jo's was nearly ready for the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut,
then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it
gently from the burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected
this, she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever,
fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down =
she
dropped.
Now, if she had been the her=
oine
of a moral storybook, she ought at this period of her life to have become q=
uite
saintly, renounced the world,=
and
gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But,
you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a struggling human girl like
hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross,
listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly virtuous to say
we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a
strong pull, and a pull all together before some of us even get our feet se=
t in
the right way. Jo had got so far, =
span>she
was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not, but to do =
it
cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She had often said she wanted to do
something splendid, no matter how hard, and now she had her wish, for what
could be more beautiful than to devote her life to Father and Mother, tryin=
g to
make home as happy to them as they had to her? And if difficulties were nec=
essary
to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless,
ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheer=
fully
live for others?
Providence had taken her at =
her
word. Here was the task, not what she had expected, but better because self=
had
no part in it. Now, could she do it? She decided that she would try, and in=
her
first attempt she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given
her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment
afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called
Difficulty.
"Why don't you write? T=
hat
always used to make you happy," said her mother once, when the despond=
ing
fit over-shadowed Jo.
"I've no heart to write,
and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
"We do. Write something=
for
us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do
you good, and please us very much."
"Don't believe I can.&q=
uot;
But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts=
.
An hour afterward her mother
peeped in and there she was, =
scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused =
Mrs.
March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggesti=
on.
Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went
straight to the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughe=
d and
cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the pop=
ular
magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others
requested. Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed t=
he
appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well=
as
friends, admired it. For a sm=
all
thing it was a great success, and Jo was more astonished than when her novel
was commended and condemned all at once.
"I don't understand it.
What can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise =
it
so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, =
Jo,
that's the secret. Humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your
style at last. You wrote with not thoughts of fame and money, and put your
heart into it, my daughter. Y=
ou
have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy a=
s we
are in your success."
"If there is anything g=
ood
or true in what I write, it isn't mine. I owe it all to you and Mother and
Beth," said Jo, more touched by her father's words than by any amount =
of
praise from the world.
So taught by love and sorrow=
, Jo
wrote her little stories, and=
sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charita=
ble
world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home
comfortable tokens to their mother,
like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of
their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejo=
ice
over it, but her fears were soon set at rest, for thought Jo looked grave a=
t first,
she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for `the children'
before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein ea=
ch
glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and
satisfactory to think of, for=
no
one had any objection to make.
"You like it, Mother?&q=
uot;
said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one
another.
"Yes, I hoped it would =
be
so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that
something better than what you call the `mercenary spirit' had come over he=
r,
and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laur=
ie
would win the day."
"How sharp you are, Mar=
mee,
and how silent! You never said a worked to me."
"Mothers have need of s=
harp
eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid=
to
put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them be=
fore
the thing was settled."
"I'm not the scatterbra=
in I
was. You may trust me. I'm sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante
now."
"So you are, my dear, a=
nd I
should have made you mine, on=
ly I
fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else."=
;
"Now, Mother, did you
really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I'd refused his love, w=
hen
it was freshest, if not best?"
"I knew you were sincere
then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, =
you
might perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't h=
elp
seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in yo=
ur eyes
that goes to my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty plac=
e if
he tried now."
"No, Mother, it is bett=
er
as it ia, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one
thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said
`Yes', not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved
than when he went away."
"I'm glad of that, Jo, =
for
it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be
satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies,
till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward."
"Mothers are the best
lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to=
try
all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all
sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts co=
uld
take in so many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to=
be
quite contented with my family. I don't understand it."
"I do." And Mrs. M=
arch
smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of
Laurie.
"It is so beautiful to =
be
loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, =
but
I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so
humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good a=
nd generous
and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impuls=
es and
hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as =
if
he `could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of =
love
for ballast'. I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my
gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert
him, while God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like
heaven this world could be, w=
hen
two people love and live for one another!"
"And that's our cool,
reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very h=
appy
they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful
hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the rea=
der fast
till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again.=
By-and-by Jo roamed away
upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit posse=
ssed
her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a
sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the ot=
her nothing.
It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affect=
ion
was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to `love
with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together'. Up in the
garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests=
in
a row, each marked with its owners name, and each filled with relics of the
childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she
came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the ch=
aotic
collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew th=
em
out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke'=
s.
She had smiled at first, then=
she
looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written =
in
the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her =
lap,
and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and
touched a tender spot in her heart.
"Wait for me, my friend=
. I
may be a little late, but I shall surely come."
"Oh, if he only would! =
So
kine, so good, so patient with me always, my dear old Fritz. I didn't value=
him
half enough when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for every=
one
seems going away from me, and I'm all alone."
And holding the little paper
fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on=
a
comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on
the roof.
Was it all self-pity,
loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had
bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say?
Jo was alone in the twilight,
lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favori=
te
way of spending the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie=
there
on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking
tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked ti=
red,
grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking =
how
fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed =
to have
accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistak=
en
in that. There was a good deal to show,&nb=
sp;
and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.
"An old maid, that's wh=
at
I'm to be. A literary spinster, with
a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years henc=
e a
morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I'm old and can't enjoy i=
t,
solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it. Well, I needn=
't
be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very c=
omfortable
when they get used to it, but..." And there Jo sighed, as if the prosp=
ect
was not inviting.
It seldom is, at first, and
thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad =
as
it looks, and one can get on quite happily if one has something in one's se=
lf
to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maid=
s,
but secretly resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing ab=
out
it, but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by
remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they m=
ay
be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girl=
s,
for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that b=
eat
so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, heal=
th,
ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even =
the
sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the
sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with
compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too
may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver
threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness a=
nd
respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.
Gentlemen, which means boys,=
be
courteous to the old maids, no
matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is t=
hat
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and
serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good
aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too oft=
en
without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have
given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have=
set
for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the =
dear
old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they
live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you=
all
the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part moth=
er
and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome=
and
maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corn=
er
of her lonely old heart for `the best nevvy in the world'.
Jo must have fallen asleep (=
as I
dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's gh=
ost
seemed to stand before her, a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her=
with
the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to s=
how
it. But, like Jenny in the ballad...
She could not think it he, <= o:p>
and lay staring up at him in
startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and fl=
ew
up, crying joyfully . ..
"Oh my Teddy! Oh my
Teddy!"
"Dear Jo, you are glad =
to
see me, then?"
"Glad! My blessed boy,
words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?" "Your mother has g=
ot
her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my
wife out of their clutches."
"Your what?" cried=
Jo,
for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfacti=
on
which betrayed him.
"Oh, the dickens! Now I=
've
done it." And he looked so guilty that Jo was down on him like a flash=
.
"You've gone and got
married!"
"Yes, please, but I nev=
er
will again." And he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping=
of
hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph.
"Actually married?"=
;
"Very much so, thank
you."
"Mercy on us. What drea=
dful
thing will you do next?" And Jo fell into her seat with a gasp.
"A characteristic, but =
not
exactly complimentary, congratulation," returned Laurie, still in an
abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.
"What can you expect, w=
hen
you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats ou=
t of
bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."=
"Not a word, unless you=
let
me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade."
Jo laughed at that as she had
not done for many a long day, and
patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "The old pillow is up garret,=
and
we don't need it now. So, come and fess, Teddy."
"How good it sounds to =
hear
you say `Teddy'! No one ever calls me that but you." And Laurie sat do=
wn
with an air of great content.
"What does Amy call
you?"
"My lord."
"That's like her. Well,=
you
look it." And Jo's eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier
than ever.
The pillow was gone, but the=
re
was a barricade, nevertheless, a
natural one, raised by time absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and=
for
a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little s=
hadow
over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, with a vain attem=
pt
at dignity...
"Don't I look like a
married man and the head of a family?" "Not a bit, and you never
will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as
ever."
"Now really, Jo, you ou=
ght
to treat me with more respect," began Laurie, who enjoyed it all
immensely.
"How can I, when the me=
re
idea of you, married and settled, =
span>is
so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all over her face, so
infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good
talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
"It's no use your going=
out
in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wa=
it.
I wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have `first skim=
' as
we used to say when we squabbled about the cream."
"Of course you did, and
spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tel=
l me
how it all happened. I'm pining to know."
"Well, I did it to plea=
se
Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim...
"Fib number one. Amy di=
d it
to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir."
"Now she's beginning to
marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?" said Laurie to the fire, and the
fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed. "It's all the same, you
know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a mont=
h or
more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass anothe=
r winter
in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I coul=
dn't
let him go along, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got English
notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with u=
s.
So I just settled the difficulty by saying, `Let's be married, and then we =
can
do as we like'."
"Of course you did. You
always have things to suit you."
"Not always." And
something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily...
"How did you ever get A=
unt
to agree?"
"It was hard work, but =
between
us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There
wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to =
it
by-and-by, and it was only `t=
aking
time by the fetlock', as my wife says."
"Aren't we proud of tho=
se
two word, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing t=
he
fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to ki=
ndle
in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last. &quo=
t;A
trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman I can't help being p=
roud
of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play propriety. We were so
absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming
arrangement would make everything easy all round, so we did it."
"When, where, how?"
asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not
realize it a particle.
"Six weeks ago, at the
American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our
happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth."
Jo put her hand in his as he
said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he
remembered well.
"Why didn't you let us =
know
afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still=
a
minute.
"We wanted to surprise =
you.
We thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentlem=
an,
as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at le=
ast,
and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once call=
ed
Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as pe=
ople
are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!"=
;
Laurie seemed to forget Jo f=
or a
minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so
freely and so naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotte=
n. She
tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted=
the
half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she=
had
never seen in him before...
"Jo, dear, I want to say
one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter whe=
n I
wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you, but t=
he
love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy =
and
you changed places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, =
and
would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, =
but
I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then,
headstrong and violent, and i=
t took
a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it ou=
t,
after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind=
, at
one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to l=
ove
you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all =
at
once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well=
off
with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly shar=
e my
heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe
it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?"=
;
"I'll believe it, with =
all
my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old tim=
es
can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with s=
ober
work to do, for playtime is o=
ver,
and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this. I see the change in
you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the ma=
n as
much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We
can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister,
He did not say a word, but t=
ook
the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling
that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, str=
ong friendship
to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't the coming
home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true that you children are real=
ly
married and going to set up housekeeping.&=
nbsp;
Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and
pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!"
"As one of the children=
is
older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I=
'm a
`gentleman growed' as Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll =
find
her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her ma=
ternal
air.
"You may be a little ol=
der
in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, a=
nd
this last year has been such a hard one that I feel forty."
"Poor Jo! We left you to
bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You are older. Here's a line, and
there's another. Unless you smile, your eyes look sad, and when I touched t=
he
cushion, just now, I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, a=
nd
had to bear it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!" And Laurie
pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look.
But Jo only turned over the
traitorous pillow, and answered, in
a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father and Mo=
ther
to help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and=
Amy
were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I am lonely,
sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and..." "You never shall be
again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out
every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without you, so you must come=
and
teach `the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we
used to do, and let us pet yo=
u, and
all be blissfully happy and friendly together." "If I shouldn't be in t=
he way,
it would be very pleasant. I begin to feel quite young already, for somehow=
all
my troubles seemed to fly away when you came. You always were a comfort,
Teddy." And Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years =
ago, when Beth lay ill and Laurie told =
her to
hold on to him. He looked down at her, wonde=
ring
if she remembered the time, b=
ut Jo
was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his
coming. "You are the same Jo st=
ill,
dropping tears about one minute, and
laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?" "I was wondering how you
and Amy get on together." "Like angels!" "Yes, of course, but wh=
ich
rules?" "I don't mind telling y=
ou
that she does now, at least I let her think so, it pleases her, you know.
By-and-by we shall take turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights =
and
doubles one's duties." "You'll go on as you be=
gin,
and Amy will rule you all the days of your life." "Well, she does it so
imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind much. She is the sort of woman
who knows how to rule well. In fact, I rather like it, for she winds one ro=
und
her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as=
if
she was doing you a favor all the while." "That ever I should liv=
e to
see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted
hands. It was good to see Laurie sq=
uare
his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he
replied, with his "high and mighty" air, "Amy is too well-br=
ed for
that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect
ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel." Jo like that, and thought the
new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the m=
an,
and regret mingled with her pleasure. "I am sure of that. Amy=
and
you never did quarrel as we used to. She is the sun and I the wind, in the
fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember." "She can blow him up as
well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "such a lecture as I got at
Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than any or your scoldings, a
regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it sometime, she never will, because
after telling me that she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her hear=
t to
the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing." "What baseness! Well, if
she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend you." "I look as if I needed =
it,
don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which sudde=
nly
changed from the imposing to the rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard callin=
g,
"Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?" In trooped the whole family,=
and
everyone was hugged and kissed all over again, and after several vain attem=
pts,
the three wanderers were set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr.
Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others=
by
his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-=
fashioned
courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It was =
good
to see him beam at `my children', as he called the young pair. It was better
still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely=
won
his old heart, and best of al=
l, to
watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty
picture they made. The minute she put her eyes =
upon
Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that yo=
ung
Mrs. Mofffat would be entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that `h=
er
ladyship' was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as =
she watched
the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has fo=
und
the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy
old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her husb=
and
smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their
youngest had done well, not o=
nly in
worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness. For Amy's face was full of t=
he soft
brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness =
in
it, and the cool, prim carria=
ge was
changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations marred it, =
and
the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or
the old grace, for it stamped=
her
at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to
become. "Love has done much for=
our
little girl," said her mother softly. "She has had a good exa=
mple
before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March whispered back, with a lo=
ving
look at the worn face and gray head beside him. Daisy found it impossible to
keep her eyes off her `pitty aunty',
but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full=
of
delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he
compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempt=
ing
form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an
unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to have him. "Young man, when I first
had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face. Now I dem=
and
the satisfaction of a gentleman," and with that the tall uncle proceed=
ed
to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical
dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul. "Blest if she ain't in =
silk
from head to foot? Ain't it a relishin' sight to see her settin' there as f=
ine
as a fiddle, anch a happy procession as filed away into the little dining r=
oom!
Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as proudly leaned on t=
he
arm of `my son'. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered, "You must be my girl now,&quo=
t; and
a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, "=
I'll
try to fill her place, sir. The twins pranced behind,
feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone was so busy with the
newcomers that they were left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may=
be
sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get =
a hot
biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a
captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble
treacherously, teaching them =
that
both human nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty
consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes
would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty,=
the
little sinners attached themselves to `Dranpa', who hadn't his spectacles o=
n.
Amy, who was handed about like
refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm. The others
paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did n=
ot
mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry. "Will Miss Amy ride in =
her
coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over
yander?" "Shouldn't wonder if she
drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point lace
every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good for her," returned Jo with
infinite satisfaction. "No more there is! Will=
you
have hash or fishballs for breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled
poetry and prose. "I don't care." An=
d Jo
shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then. She st=
ood
a minute looking at the party vanishing above, and as Demi's short plaid le=
gs
toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of lonliness came over her so stro=
ngly
that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean up=
on,
for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was co=
ming
every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, "I=
'll
weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won't do to be dismal now." Th=
en
she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to =
know
where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when th=
ere
came a knock at the porch door. She opened with hospitable
haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her, for there
stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a
midnight sun. "Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so
glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night
would swallow him up before she could get him in. "And I to see Miss Mars=
ch,
but no, you haf a party," and the Professor paused as the sound of voi=
ces
and the tap of dancing feet came down to them. "No, we haven't, only t=
he
family. My sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happ=
y.
Come in, and make one of us." Though a very social man, I
think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day,
but how could he, when Jo shu=
t the
door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something =
to
do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it wit=
h a
frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far e=
xceeded
his boldest hopes. "If I shall not be Mons=
ieur
de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You haf been ill, my friend?"<=
o:p> He put the question abruptly,
for, as Jo hung up his coat, =
the
light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it. "Not ill, but tired and
sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you last." "Ah, yes, I know. My he=
art
was sore for you when I heard that," And he shook hands again, with su=
ch a
sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the =
kind
eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand. "Father, Mother, this i=
s my
friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such
irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet
and opened the door with a flourish. If the stranger had any doub=
ts
about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welco=
me
he received. Everyone greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very =
soon
they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the tali=
sman
that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeli=
ng
even the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who =
live
above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat
looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a strange door, =
and
when it opens, finds himself at home. The children went to him like bees to=
a
honeypot, and establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate =
him by
rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with
juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to one another, and=
Mr.
March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores=
for
his guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but s=
aid
not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep. If Jo had not been otherwise
engaged, Laurie's behavior would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of
jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloo=
f at
first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did n=
ot
last long. He got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn i=
nto
the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did
himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and=
a shadow
would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watc=
hed
the young man in his prime. Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that
she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo =
had
her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, s=
he prudently
kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. A stealthy glance now and th=
en
refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong
peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the ab=
sent-minded
expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actua=
lly
young and handsome, she thought, forgetting
to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great =
detriment.
Then he seemed quite inspired, though
the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed,
might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph
when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watc=
hed
her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my
Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a =
new
suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bus=
hy
hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for =
in
exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo l=
iked
it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine f=
orehead
a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat
knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact
that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristband=
s. "Dear old fellow! He
couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing,&qu=
ot;
said Jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born of the words made her bl=
ush
so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide h=
er
face. The maneuver did not succeed=
as
well as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire t=
o a
funeral pyre, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little b=
lue
ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and bo=
th
came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them. Nobody knew where the evening
went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodd=
ing
like two rosy poppies, and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat r=
ound
the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg,
whose maternal was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled =
out
of be, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of matches, =
made
a move to go. "We must have our sing,=
in
the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said Jo,
feeling that a good shout would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant
emotions of her soul. They were not all there. But=
no
one found the words thougtless or untrue, for Beth still seemed among them,=
a
peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not b=
reak
the household league that love made disoluble. The little chair stood in its
old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished when t=
he
needle grew `so heavy', was still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved
instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved, and above it Beth's face,
serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to
say, "Be happy. I am here." "Play something, Amy. L=
et
them hear how much you have improved," said Laurie, with pardonable pr=
ide
in his promising pupil. But Amy whispered, with full
eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "Not tonight, dear. I can't show=
off
tonight." But she did show something
better than brilliancy or skill, for
she sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master
could not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a sweeter pow=
er
than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very still, w=
hen
the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It
was hard to say... Earth hath no sorrow that he=
aven
cannot heal; and Amy leaned against her
husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite
perfect without Beth's kiss. "Now, we must finish wi=
th
Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said Jo, before the pause gr=
ew
painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with a gratified "Hem!"=
as
he stepped into the corner where Jo stood, saying... "You will sing with me?=
We
go excellently well together." A pleasing fiction, by the w=
ay,
for Jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper. But she would have
consented if he had proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away,
blissfully regardless of time and tune. It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhae=
r sang
like a true German, heartily and well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued =
hum,
that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone=
. Know'st
thou the land where the citron blooms, used to be the Professor's
favorite line, for `das land' meant Germany to him, but now he seemed to dw=
ell,
with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words... There, oh there, might I with
thee, O, my beloved, go and one listener was so thri=
lled
by the tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and
would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked The song was considered a g=
reat
success, and the singer retired covered with laurels. But a few minutes
afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her
bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as `my sister', and on one had
called her by her new name since her came. He forgot himself still further =
when
Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting... "My wife and I are very
glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that there is always a welcome waiti=
ng
for you over the way." Then the Professor thanked h=
im
so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that Lau=
rie
thought him the most delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met. "I too shall go, but I
shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave, dear madame, for a little
business in the city will keep me here some days." He spoke to Mrs. March, but =
he
looked at Jo, and the mother's voice gave as cordial an assent as did the
daughter's eyes, for Mrs. March was not so blind to her children's interest=
as
Mrs. Moffat supposed. "I suspect that is a wi=
se
man," remarked Mr. March, with placid satisfaction, from the hearthrug,
after the last guest had gone. "I know he is a good
one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as she wound up the clo=
ck. "I thought you'd like
him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her bed. She wondered what the busine=
ss
was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, and finally decided that he had been
appointed to some great honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention
the fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at=
the
picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who
appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light up=
on the
subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in t=
he
dark. "Please, Madam Mother,
could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've =
been
making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," =
said
Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's
lap, as if being made `the baby' again. "Certainly. Go, dear, I
forgot that you have any home but this." And Mrs. March pressed the wh=
ite
hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal
covetousness. "I shouldn't have come =
over
if I could have helped it, but I can't get on without my little woman any m=
ore
than a..." "Weathercock can without
the wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite=
her
own saucy self again since Teddy came home. "Exactly, for Amy keeps=
me
pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to
the south, and I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married. Don't k=
now anything
about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?" "Lovely weather so far.=
I
don't know how long it will last, =
span>but
I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home,
dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose that's what you are rummaging
after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said Amy, with a
matronly air, which delighted her husband. "What are you going to =
do
with yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloa=
k as
she used to button her pinafores. "We have our plans. We
don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms,=
but
we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that sh=
all
delight Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need somethin=
g of
the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."<=
o:p> "And Amy, what is she g=
oing
to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision and the en=
ergy
with which he spoke. "After doing the civil =
all
round, and airing our best bonnet, <=
/span>we
shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw
about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at lar=
ge.
That's about it, isn't it, Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizz=
ical
look at Amy. "Time will show. Come a=
way,
Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their
faces," answered Amy, re=
solving
that there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salo=
n as
a queen of society. "How happy those childr=
en
seem together!" observed Mr. March,&n=
bsp;
finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the y=
oung
couple had gone. "Yes, and I think it wi=
ll
last," added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has
brought a ship safely into port. "I know it will. Happy
Amy!" And Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the
gate with an impatient push. Later in the evening, when h=
is
mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his w=
ife,
"Mrs. Laurence." "My Lord!" "That man intends to ma=
rry
our Jo!" "I hope so, don't you,
dear?" "Well, my love, I consi=
der
him a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he=
was
a little younger and a good deal richer." "Now, Laurie, don't be =
too
fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a
particle how old they are nor how poor. Women never should marry for
money..." Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and lo=
oked
at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity... "Certainly not, though =
you
do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory
serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That account=
s, perhaps, for your marrying a
good-for-nothing like me." "Oh, my dearest boy, do=
n't,
don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said `Yes'. I'd have married =
you
if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show=
how
much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very f=
ond
in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. "You don't really think=
I
am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break =
my
heart if you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you,=
even if you had to get your living=
by
rowing on the lake."2 "Am I an idiot and a br=
ute?
How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me
give you half I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> poor things, and are taught to thi=
nk it
is their only salvation, but =
you
had better lessons, and though I trembled for you at one time, I was not
disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Ma=
mma
so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a che=
ck
for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral
remarks, Mrs. Laurence." And Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an abse=
nt
look, though fixed upon his face.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR<=
/a>
"Yes, I am, and admiring
the mple in your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I
must confess that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money.=
Don't
laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me." And Amy softly caressed=
the
well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction.
Laurie had received many com=
pliments
in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed tho=
ugh
he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May=
I
ask you a question, dear?"
"Of course, you may.&qu=
ot;
"Shall you care if Jo d=
oes
marry Mr. Bhaer?"
"Oh, that's the trouble=
is
it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you.=
Not
being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can
dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my
darling?"
Amy looked up at him, and was
satisfied. Her little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, w=
ith
a face full of love and confidence.
"I wish we could do
something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relatio=
n,
who shall obligingly die out there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little
fortune?" said Laurie, w=
hen
they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they w=
ere
fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
"Jo would find us out, =
and
spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday t=
hat
she thought poverty was a beautiful thing."
"Bless her dear heart! =
She
won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professo=
rs
and professorins to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, =
and do
them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my educatio=
n,
and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round h=
er
in that way."
"How delightful it is t=
o be
able to help others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the
power of giving freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true."
"Ah, we'll do quantitie=
s of
good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to hel=
p.
Out-and-out beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly,
"Because it takes a
gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration
society.
"Thank you, I'm afraid I
don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I w=
as
dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many talented young fellows making all
sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize t=
heir
dreams. Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and
friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was asham=
ed
of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom
it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be
allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to
keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor
souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out."
"Yes, indeed, and there=
's
another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of=
it,
for I belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the
beggarmaid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, healt=
h, and
precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right
minute. People have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls struggli=
ng along,
as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was helped."
"And so you shall, like=
an
angel as you are!" cried Laurie,
resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an
institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies.
"Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let th=
eir
money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave
legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and en=
joy making
one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves, and=
add
an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a generous taste.
Will you be a little Dorcal, going about emptying a big basket of comforts,=
and
filling it up with good deeds?"
"With all my heart, if =
you
will be a brave St. Martin, s=
topping
as you ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the
beggar."
"It's a bargain, and we
shall get the best of it!"
So the young pair shook hands
upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home =
was
more homelike because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that th=
eir
own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if t=
hey
smoothed rough ways for other feet,
and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a l=
ove
which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.
I cannot feel that I have do=
ne
my duty as humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least =
one
chapter to the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi
had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of thre=
e or
four assert their rights, and get them,&nb=
sp;
too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a
pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by adoration, it was these
prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most remarkable children ever bo=
rn,
as will be shown when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked
fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table,
and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a `needle=
r',
and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She likewise set up house=
keeping
in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking stove with a skill that
brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with
his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming
letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels.=
The
boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and
distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and ke=
pt
the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his `sewinsheen', a mysterious
structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go `wou=
nd
and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist =
his
too confiding sister, who, wi=
th
feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when =
the
young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, Marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and =
me's
trying to pull her up."
Though utterly unlike in
character, the twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled =
more
than thrice a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly def=
ended
her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself,=
and
adored her brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby,
sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and
nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed =
and
cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval =
on all
festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been
quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully hu=
man.
It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to=
the
window in her little nightgown to look our, and say, no matter whether it
rained or shone, "Oh, pi=
tty
day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a friend, and she offered kisses to a
stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and
baby-lovers became faithful worshipers.
"Me loves evvybody,&quo=
t;
she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in=
the
other, as if eager to embrace and nourish the whole world.
As she grew, her mother bega= n to feel that the Dovecote would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as ser= ene and loving as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how = long they had entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her `Beth', and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see.<= o:p>
Demi, like a true Yankee, wa=
s of
an inquiring turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much distu=
rbed
because he could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What
for?"
He also possessed a philosop=
hic
bent, to the great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic
conversations with him, in wh=
ich
the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised
satisfaction of the womenfolk.
"What makes my legs go,
Dranpa?" asked the young philosopher,=
surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> while resting after a go-to-bed fr=
olic
one night.
"It's your little mind,
Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully.
"What is a little
mine?"
"It is something which
makes your body move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when I
showed it to you."
"Open me. I want to see=
it
go wound."
"I can't do that any mo=
re
than you could open the watch. God winds you up, and you go till He stops
you."
"Does I?" And Demi=
's
brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the new thought. "Is I
wounded up like the watch?"
"Yes, but I can't show =
you
how, for it is done when we don't see."
Demi felt his back, as if
expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked, &qu=
ot;I
dess Dod does it when I's asleep."
A careful explanation follow=
ed,
to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said, &quo=
t;My
dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby? He's get=
ting
great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable
questions."
"If he is old enough to=
ask
the question he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the
thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold those already there. These c=
hildren
are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I
have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind."
If the boy had replied like
Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates,&n=
bsp;
I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, =
but when,
after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answe=
red,
in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old gentl=
eman
could only join in Grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.
There might have been cause =
for
maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true
boy, as well as a budding philosopher, for often, after a discussion which
caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long f=
or this
world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the
pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight
their parent's souls.
Meg made many moral rules, a=
nd
tried to keep them, but what mother was ever proof against the winning wile=
s,
the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and w=
omen
who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
"No more raisins, Demi.
They'll make you sick," says Mamma to the young person who offers his =
services
in the kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.
"Me likes to be sick.&q=
uot;
"I don't want to have y=
ou,
so run away and help Daisy make patty cakes."
He reluctantly departs, but =
his
wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and
by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma by a
shrewd bargain.
"Now you have been good
children, and I'll play anything you like," says Meg, as she leads her
assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
"Truly, Marmar?" a=
sks
Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.
"Yes, truly. Anything y=
ou
say," replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing,
"The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times over, or to take her
family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or limb. But Demi
corners her by the cool reply...
"Then we'll go and eat =
up
all the raisins."
Aunt Dodo was chief playmate=
and
confidante of both children, =
and
the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a na=
me
to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo=
was
a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she w=
as
deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and
dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of =
going
about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, wi=
th
infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with `the
bear-man' better than she did him, <=
/span>but
though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a
rival who kept a mine of chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a wat=
ch
that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
Some persons might have
considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, but Demi didn't see it in th=
at
light, and continued to patronize the `the bear-man' with pensive affabilit=
y,
while Daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and c=
onsidered
his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing
worth.
Gentlemen are sometimes seiz=
ed
with sudden fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they
honor with their regard, but =
this
counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a par=
ticle.
Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however likewise effective--for honesty is
the best policy in love as in law. He was one of the men who are at home wi=
th
children, and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant co=
ntrast
with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to
day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always ask=
ed
for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa labor=
ed
under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long discussions with the
kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly
enlightened him.
Mr. Bhaer came in one evenin=
g to
pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met h=
is
eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the a=
ir,
and beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude wi=
th
his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed
that they were unconscious of spectators,&=
nbsp;
till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a
scandalized face...
"Father, Father, here's=
the
Professor!"
Down went the black legs and=
up
came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "=
Good
evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment. We are just finishing our lesso=
n.
Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."
"I knows him!" And,
after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs tok the shape of a pair of
compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, "It's a We,
Dranpa, it's a We!"
"He's a born Weller,&qu=
ot;
laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stan=
d on
his head, as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was o=
ver.
"What have you been at
today, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast.
"Me went to see little
Mary."
"And what did you
there?"
"I kissed her," be=
gan
Demi, with artless frankness. "Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the
little Mary say to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the y=
oung
sinner, who stood upon the kn=
ee,
exploring the waistcoat pocket.
"Oh, she liked it, and =
she
kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little boys like little girls?" asked
Demi, with his mouth full, an=
d an
air of bland satisfaction.
"You precious chick! Who
put that into your head?" said Jo,&nb=
sp;
enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.
"`Tisn't in mine head, =
it's
in mine mouf," answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a
chocolate drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
"Thou shouldst save some
for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet, mannling." And Mr. Bhaer
offered Jo some, with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the
nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and
artlessy inquired. ..
"Do great boys like gre=
at
girls, to, 'Fessor?"
Like young Washington, Mr. B=
haer
`couldn't tell a lie', so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed
they did sometimes, in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush=
, glance at Jo's retiring face, and =
then
sink into his chair, looking as if the `precocious chick' had put an idea i=
nto
his head that was both sweet and sour.
Why Dodo, when she caught hi=
m in
the china closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of =
his
little body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> and why she followed up this novel
performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remai=
ned
one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced =
to leave
unsolved forever.
While Laurie and Amy were ta=
king
conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and
planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a
different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.
"I always do take a walk
toward evening, and I don't know why I should give it up, just because I ha=
ppen
to meet the Professor on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or
three encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she
took she was sure to meet him., either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and=
never
seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sig=
hted
eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if
she was going to Meg's he always had something for the babies. If her face =
was
turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just
returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.
Under the circumstances, what
could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of h=
is
visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that =
there
should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't =
like
tea."
By the second week, everyone
knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they
were stone-blind to the changes in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang
about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with=
her
evening exercise. And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that
Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the
daughter lessons in love.
Jo couldn't even lose her he=
art
in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing=
to
do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laugh=
ed at
for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence.
Laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved wi=
th
praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer `a capital old fellow' in
public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance,=
or
expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches'
table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the ti=
me
to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged st=
aff
on it as an appropriate coat of arms.
For a fortnight, the Profess=
or
came and went with lover-like regularity. Then he stayed away for three who=
le
days, and made no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, =
and Jo
to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross.
"Disgusted, I dare say,=
and
gone home as suddenly as he came. It's nothing tome, of course, but I should
think he would have come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she sai=
d to
herself, with a despairing lo=
ok at
the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull afternoo=
n.
"You'd better take the
little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain," said her mother, observing
that she had on her new bonnet, but
not alluding to the fact. "Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? =
I've
got to run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow un=
der
her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
"Yes, I want some twill=
ed
silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender
ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your
cloak?"
"I believe so,"
answered Jo absently.
"If you happen to meet =
Mr.
Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man," added
Mrs. March.
Jo heard that, but made no
answer, except to kiss her mother, <=
/span>and
walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any
mothers to help them through their troubles?"
The dry-goods stores were not
down among the counting-houses, banks,
and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo found herself in that part =
of the
city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for some=
one,
examining engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in anot=
her,
with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending
bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wonder=
ed
`how the deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her
thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to f=
all,
and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late=
to
save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrell=
a,
which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was
unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to to a
drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow alrea=
dy flecked
with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look
behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with `Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' ov=
er
the door, and said to herself, with
a sternly reproachful air...
"It serves me right! wh=
at
business had I to put on all my best things and come philandering down here,
hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go t=
here
to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall
trudge away, and do your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death a=
nd
ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"
With that she rushed across =
the
street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing
truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, w=
ho
said, "I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewh=
at daunted,
Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and
putting temptation behind her, hurried on,=
with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbr=
ellas
overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary
above the unprotected bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she s=
aw
Mr. Bhaer looking down.
"I feel to know the
strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast
through much mus. What do you down here, my friend?"
"I'm shopping."
Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glan=
ced
from the pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather conce=
rn
on the other, but her only sa=
id
politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"=
;
"Yes, thank you."<= o:p>
Jo's cheeks were as red as h=
er
ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for i=
n a
minute she found herself walking away arm in arm with her Professor, feelin=
g as
if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world =
was
all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through t=
he
wet that day.
"We thought you had
gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet
wasn't big enough to hide her face,
and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
"Did you believe that I
should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind tome?&quo=
t;
he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the s=
uggestion,
and answered heartily...
"No, I didn't. I knew y=
ou
were busy about your own affairs, =
span>but
we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."
"And you?"
"I'm always glad to see
you, sir."
In her anxiety to keep her v=
oice
quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at t=
he
end seemed to chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said
gravely...
"I thank you, and come =
one
more time before I go."
"You are going, then?&q=
uot;
"I haf no longer any
business here, it is done."
"Successfully, I
hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short
reply of his.
"I ought to think so, f=
or I
haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Junglings mu=
ch
help."
"Tell me, please! I lik=
e to
know all about the--the boys,"
said Jo eagerly.
"That is so kind, I gla=
dly
tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at
home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I
should be grateful, should I not?"
"Indeed you should. How
splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you
often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for =
the
satisfaction she could not help betraying.
"Ah! But we shall not m=
eet
often, I fear, this place is at the West."
"So far away!" And=
Jo
left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her
clothes or herself.
Mr. Bhaer could read several
languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself t=
hat
he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictio=
ns of
voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day,=
for
she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When=
she
met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting t=
hat
she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that fille=
d him
with delight, but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly,
formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she a=
lmost
clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his
destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that
lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him do=
wn
again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter...
"Here's the place for my
errands. Will you come in? It won't take long."
Jo rather prided herself upon
her shopping capabilities, and
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch wi=
th
which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was i=
n,
everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia wa=
s to
be `twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself
with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bha=
er
stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own
bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some
occasions, women, like dreams=
, go
by contraries.
When they came out, he put t=
he
parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the
puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the whole.
"Should we no do a litt=
le
what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if =
I go
for my last call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before =
a window
full of fruit and flowers.
"What will we buy?"
asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled
odors with an affectation of delight as they went in.
"May they haf oranges a=
nd
figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.
"They eat them when they
can get them." "Do you care for nuts?"
"Like a squirrel."=
"Hamburg grapes. Yes, we
shall drink to the Fatherland in those?"
Jo frowned upon that piece of
extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dated, a cask of raisi=
ns,
and a bag of almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated he=
r purse,
produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of
grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in=
the
light of a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and
giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they travel=
ed on
again.
"Miss Marsch, I haf a g=
reat
favor to ask of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of =
half
a block.
"Yes, sir." And Jo=
's
heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it.
"I am bold to say it in
spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me."
"Yes, sir." And Jo
nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it.
"I wish to get a little
dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a
word of taste and help?"
"Yes, sir." And JO
felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a
refrigerator.
"Perhaps also a shawl f=
or
Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick,&nb=
sp;
and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would =
be a
friendly thing to take the little mother."
"I'll do it with pleasu=
re,
Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast, and
he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a me=
ntal
shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to beh=
old.
Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then
ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to tak=
e an
interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family.
"Your lady may prefer t=
his.
It's a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and
genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing =
it
over Jo's shoulders.
"Does this suit you, Mr.
Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful
for the chance of hiding her face. "Excellently well, we will haf
it," answered the Professor, =
span>smiling
to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters li=
ke a
confirmed bargain-hunter.
"Now shall we go
home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him.
"Yes, it's late, and I'=
m so
tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun se=
emed
to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and mi=
serable
again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her h=
ead
ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than t=
he
latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was=
all
a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her hea=
d,
she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies
flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.
"This is not our
omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and
stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.
"I beg your pardon. I
didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I'm used to ploddin=
g in
the mud," returned Jo, w=
inking
hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes. Mr. Bha=
er
saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The sight see=
med
to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that
meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"
Now, if Jo had not been new =
to
this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her
head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of whi=
ch, that undignified creature answered=
, with
an irrepressible sob, "B=
ecause
you are going away."
"Ach, mein Gott, that i=
s so
good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the
umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you.=
I
came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was
something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your hea=
rt
for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.
"Oh, yes!" said Jo,
and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his are, and loo=
ked
up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to =
walk
through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old
umbrella, if he carried it.
It was certainly proposing u=
nder
difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go d=
own
upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand,
except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tend=
er
remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only way in
which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression w=
hich
glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little
rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo ve=
ry
much, I don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lov=
ely,
with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ank=
le,
and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beaut=
iful
woman living, and she found him more `Jove-like" than ever, though his
hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shou=
lders
(for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves need=
ed mending.
Passers-by probably thought =
them
a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and
strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they
cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seld=
om
comes but once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the o=
ld,
beauty on the plain, wealth o=
n the
poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as=
if
he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in =
the
way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had alwa=
ys
been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of
course, she was the first to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional
remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a
coherent or reportable character.
"Friedrich, why didn't
you..."
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me
the name that no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor,
pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight.
"I always call you so to
myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like it."
"Like it? It is more sw=
eet
to me than I can tell. Say `thou', <=
/span>also,
and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
"Isn't `thou' a little
sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank
Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment,&nbs=
p;
and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English `you' is so cold, say =
`thou',
heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a
grave professor.
"Well, then, why didn't
thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully.
"Now I shall haf to show
thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it
hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the dear, funny little name--I had a wish =
to
tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handso=
me friend
was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said `Yes', th=
en,
if I had spoken?"
"I don't know. I'm afra=
id
not, for I didn't have any heart just then."
"Prut! That I do not
believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and wak=
ed
it up. Ah, well, `Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not
expect."
"Yes, the first love is=
the
best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, a=
nd
soon got over his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the
Professor's mistake.
"Good! Then I shall rest
happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown
selfish, as thou wilt find , Professorin."
"I like that," cri=
ed
Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at las=
t,
just when I wanted you?"
"This." And Mr. Bh=
aer
took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.
Jo unfolded it, and looked m=
uch
abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for
poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.
"How could that bring
you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.
"I found it by chance. I
knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse
that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the
wet."
IN THE GARRET Four little chests al=
l in a
row, Dim with dust, and worn =
by
time, All fashioned and fille=
d,
long ago, By children now in =
their
prime. Four little keys hung side by side,=
With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish
pride, Long ago, on a rainy d=
ay. Four
little names, one on each lid, Carved
out by a boyish hand, And
underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happpy band Once playing here, =
and
pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain,&nbs=
p;
That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain.
"Meg" on the first
lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known c=
are, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life-- Gi=
fts to
gentle child and girl, A brid=
al
gown, lines to a wife, A tiny=
shoe,
a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In
another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sw=
eet
refrain, Lullabies ever soft =
and
low In the falling summer rain.
"Jo" on the next l=
id,
scratched and worn, And withi=
n a
motley store Of headless, dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no mor=
e, Spoils brought home from the fairy
ground Only trod by youthful feet, <=
/span>Dreams
of a future never found, Memo=
ries
of a past still sweet, Half-w=
rit
poems, stories wild, April le=
tters,
warm and cold, Diaries of a w=
ilful
child, Hints of a woman early=
old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain-- &quo=
t;Be
worthy, love, and love will come," In the falling summer rain.
My Beth! the dust is always
swept From the lid that bears your name,&n=
bsp;
As if by loving eyes that wept,&nbs=
p;
By careful hands that often came. Death cannonized for us one saint,=
Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plai=
nt, Relics in this household shrine-- =
The
silver bell, so seldom rung, =
The
little cap which last she wore, The
fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she
sang, without lament, In her
prison-house of pain, Forever=
are
they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain.
Upon the last lid's polished
field-- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield,=
"Amy" in letters gold and
blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their la=
st, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past,
Four little chests all in a =
row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe=
To
love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love's immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, =
when
these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father's sight, May they be rich in golden hours,<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Deeds that show fairer for the lig=
ht, Lives whose brave music long shall=
ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and s=
ing In
the long sunshine after rain.
"It's very bad poetry, =
but
I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good c=
ry
on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales," =
said
Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.
"Let it go, it has done
it's duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in whi=
ch
she keeps her little secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watch=
ed
the fragments fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly,
"I read that, and I thin=
k to
myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true lov=
e. I
haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, "If this is not
too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's
name?"
"And so you came to find
that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispe=
red
Jo.
"I had no courage to th=
ink
that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to
hope, and then I said, `I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!&quo=
t;
cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defia=
nt
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was =
to
surmount or valiantly knock down.
Jo thought that was splendid,
and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on=
a
charger in gorgeous array.
"What made you stay awa=
y so
long?" she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential
questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent.
"It was not easy, but I
could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could =
haf
a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How
could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune=
but
a little learning?"
"I'm glad you are poor.=
I
couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer t=
one,
"Don't fear poverty. I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be
happy working for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the p=
rime
of life. I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"
The Professor found that so
touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have=
got
at it. As her couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as s=
he took
away a bundle or two...
"I may be strong-minded,
but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is
supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share,
Friedrich, and help to earn t=
he
home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolute=
ly,
as he tried to reclaim his load.
"We shall see. Haf you
patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I mu=
st
help my boys first, because, =
even
for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy
while we hope and wait?"
"Yes, I know I can, for=
we
love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty,
also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you=
, so
there's no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I ca=
n do
mine here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to=
be
as God wills."
"Ah! Thou gifest me such
hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these
empty hands," cried the Professor, quite overcome.
Jo never, never would learn =
to
be proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put
both hands into his, whispering tenderly, "Not empty now," and
stooping down, kissed her Fri=
edrich
under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the floc=
k of
draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very
far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness. =
Though
it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both t=
heir
lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the househo=
ld
light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welco=
me
home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.
For a year Jo and her Profes=
sor
worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such volumi=
nous
letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said.=
The
second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and
Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over--for they lo=
ved
the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause for
rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful=
things
possible.
"It's a fine old place,=
and
will bring a handsome sum, for of course you intend to sell it," said
Laurie, as they were all talking the matter over some weeks later.
"No, I don't," was
Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, ou=
t of
respect to his former mistress.
"You don't mean to live
there?"
"Yes, I do."
"But, my dear girl, it'=
s an
immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The gard=
en
and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line,=
I
take it."
"He'll try his hand at =
it
there, if I propose it."
"And you expect to live=
on
the produce of the place? Well, that
sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
"The crop we are going =
to
raise is a profitable one," And Jo laughed.
"Of what is this fine c=
rop
to consist, ma'am?"
"Boys. I want to open a
school for little lads--a good, happy,
homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them."=
; "That's
a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried Laurie,
appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
"I like it," said =
Mrs.
March decidedly.
"So do I," added h=
er
husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic metho=
d of
education on modern youth.
"It will be an immense =
care
for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head or her one all-absorbing son.
"Jo can do it, and be h=
appy
in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence,
who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would re=
fuse
his help.
"I knew you'd stand by =
me,
sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn=
it
over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo
earnestly, "just underst=
and
that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fr=
itz
came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at
home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who
hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them bef=
ore
it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at the right
minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants, and
sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother to
them!"
Mrs. March held out her hand=
to
Jo, who took it, smiling, with
tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long
while.
"I told my plan to Fritz
once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when=
we
got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's been doing it all his life--helping po=
or
boys, I mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay in =
his
pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who
loved me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so, and we can liv=
e at
Plumfield perfectly well, if =
we
have a flourishing school. It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture
strong and plain. There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid
grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is
healthy, isn't it, sir? Then =
Fritz
could train and teach in his own way,
and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold the=
m,
and Mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and ne=
ver
had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in the little dears to =
my
heart's content. Think what luxury-- Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of =
boys
to enjoy it with me."
As Jo waved her hands and ga=
ve a
sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laur=
ence
laughed till they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit.
"I don't see anything
funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard. "Nothing could=
be
more natural and proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me =
to
prefer to reside in my own estate."
"She is putting on airs
already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital
joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? =
If
all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profit=
able
in a worldly sense, Mr. Bhaer."
"Now don't be a
wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also--perhaps begin
with such altogether. Then, w=
hen
I've got a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich
people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen unfortu=
nate
little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it=
's
real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lo=
se their
mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and tha=
t's
the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, a=
nd
hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn a=
ll
at once from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much-=
- plucky
little souls--but they feel it. I've been through some- thing of it, and I =
know
all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show
them that I see the warm, hon=
est,
well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the
topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy t=
o be a
pride and honor to his family?"
"I'll testify that you
tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful look.
"And I've succeeded bey=
ond
my hopes, for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of =
good
with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollar=
s. But
you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy
them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times=
. I
am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels i=
t,
though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just
point to you, and say `There's your model, my lads'."
Poor Laurie didn't know wher=
e to
look, for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over hi=
m as
this burst of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
"I say, Jo, that's rath=
er
too much," he began, just in his old boyish way. "You have all do=
ne
more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to
disapoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the bes=
t of
help, nevertheless. So, if I'=
ve got
on at all, you may thank these two for it." And he laid one hand gentl=
y on
his grandfather's head, and t=
he
other on Amy's golden one, for the three were never far apart.
"I do think that famili=
es
are the most beautiful things in all the world!" burst out Jo, who was=
in
an unusually up-lifted frame of mind just then. "When I have one of my
own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If J=
ohn and
my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," =
she
added more quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissf=
ul
evening of family counsels, hopes, <=
/span>and
plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by
kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thou=
ghts
of Beth. It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to ha=
ppen
in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where s=
he
was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of si=
x or
seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys=
as
well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of
destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle f=
or its
support. In this way, the sly=
old
gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in wh=
ich
she most delighted.
Of course it was uphill work=
at
first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but the wise Professor steered her safely
into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the en=
d. How
Jo did enjoy her `wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear Aunt March would =
have
lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-order=
ed
Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic
justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the bo=
ys for
miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked =
up
the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big fie=
ld
where the irritable `cow with a crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to
come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggeste=
d that
it should be called the `Bhaer-garten', as a compliment to its master and
appropriate to its inhabitants.
It never was a fashionable
school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune, but it was just what Jo
intended it to be-- `a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching,
care, and kindness'. Every room in the big house was soon full. Every little
plot in the garden soon had its owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn=
and
shed, for pet animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her
Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy
young faces, which all turned=
to
her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love =
for
`Mother Bhaer'. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though t=
hey
were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and P=
rofessorin
much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists in the
heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave =
her
patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal boy could hold out long
with Father Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bha=
er forgiving
him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads,
their penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching
little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their
misfortunes, for they only en=
deared
them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys
and riotous boys, boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame
ones, and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but=
who
was welcome to the `Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his
admission would ruin the school.
Yes, Jo was a very happy wom=
an
there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the appl=
ause
of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now she told =
no
stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the
years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness--R=
ob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a
happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny tempe=
r as
well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whi=
rlpool
of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but they flourished like
dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well.
There were a great many holi=
days
at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. =
For
then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes. And Bhaers turned out in full force a=
nd
made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful
festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an
exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance
healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod =
and
asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere gr=
ass,
and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with
their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the
lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow
apples at the first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang,
climbed up and tumbled down. Everybody declared that there never had been s=
uch
a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves=
up
to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such thin=
gs
as care or sorrow in the world.
Mr. March strolled placidly
about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying...
The gentle apple's winey jui=
ce.
The Professor charged up and
down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance,
leading on the boys, who made=
a
hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of
ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode =
his
small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the bird's nests, and
kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among t=
he
apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pou=
ring
in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the
various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his=
little
crutch beside him.
Jo was in her element that d=
ay,
and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, and her hat anywhere but on her
head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure whi=
ch might
turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him,
and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad,
galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his
indulgent papa, who labored u=
nder
the Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabba=
ge
to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would
turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always rece=
ived
him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.
At four o'clock a lull took
place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple pickers rested and compa=
red
rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass,=
for
an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literal=
ly
flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not require=
d to
sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked--freedom
being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of=
the
rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experimen=
t of
drinking mild while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfro=
g by
eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the
field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. T=
he
little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his
own sweet will.
When no one could eat any mo=
re,
the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at s=
uch
times--"Aunt March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the
good man, who never forgot ho=
w much
he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her
memory green.
"Now, Grandma's sixtieth
birthday! Long life to her, with three times three!"
That was given with a will, =
as
you may well believe, and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it.
Everybody's health was proposed, form Mr. Laurence, who was considered thei=
r special
patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper spher=
e in
search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented =
the
queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported=
to
the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to
other eyes were ornaments to Grandma's--for the children's gifts were all t=
heir
own. Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerch=
iefs
she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi's miracle of
mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, Rob's footstool had a wig=
gle
in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page of the costly
book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy
capitals, the words-- "To dear Grandma, from her little Beth."
During the ceremony the boys=
had
mysteriously disappeared, and=
when
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy wi=
ped
her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from
above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed
the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the
little song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor tra=
ined
his lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, a=
nd
it proved a grand success, for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise, a=
nd
insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall
Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.
After this, the boys dispers=
ed
for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival t=
ree.
"I don't think I ever o=
ught
to call myself `unlucky Jo' again, <=
/span>when
my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,
taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was rapturo=
usly
churning.
"And yet your life is v=
ery
different from the one you pictured so long ago. Do you remember our castle=
s in
the air?" asked Amy, smi=
ling
as she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
"Dear fellows! It does =
my
heart good to see them forget business and frolic for a day," answered=
Jo,
who now spoke in a maternal way of all mankind. "Yes, I remember, but =
the
life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't giv=
en
up the hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure =
it
will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these.&quo=
t;
And Jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning =
on
the Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one=
of
the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitti=
ng
enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her fe=
et,
as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to
them.
"My castle was the most
nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my
heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a little home, and John, and s=
ome
dear children like these. I've got them all, thank God, and am the happiest
woman in the world." And Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, wit=
h a
face full of tender and devout content.
"My castle is very
different from what I planned, but I would not alter it, though, like Jo, I
don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to helping others
fulfill their dreams of beauty. I've begun to model a figure of baby, and
Laurie says it is the best thing I've ever done. I think so, myself, and me=
an to
do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image o=
f my
little angel."
As Amy spoke, a great tear
dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms, for her one
well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the dread of losing h=
er
was the shadow over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both fath=
er and
mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature w=
as
growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious,
strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, =
even
love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most bles=
sed
for ...
Into each life some rain must fall,=
Some days must be dark and sad and
dreary.
"She is growing better, I am s=
ure of
it, my dear. Don't despond, but hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March,=
as
tenderhearted Daisy stooped from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her
little cousin's pale one.
"I never ought to, whil=
e I
have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and
Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly.
"He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me=
, so
devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can't love=
him
enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, `Thank God, I'm a
happy woman.'"
"There's no need for me=
to
say it, for everyone can see that I'm far happier than I deserve," add=
ed
Jo, glancing from her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the
grass beside her. "Fritz is getting gray and stout. I'm growing as thi=
n as
a shadow, and am thirty. We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up =
any
night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under=
the
bed-clothes, though he's set
himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I
have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the
remark, but living among boys, I can't help using their expressions now and
then."
"Yes, Jo, I think your
harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March, frightening away a big
black cricket that was staring Teddy out of countenance.
"Not half so good as yo=
urs,
Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing
and reaping you have done," cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity whic=
h she
never would outgrow.
"I hope there will be m=
ore
wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy softly.
"A large sheaf, but I k=
now
there's room in your heart for it, Marmee dear," added Meg's tender vo=
ice.
Touched to the heart, Mrs. M=
arch
could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren=
to
herself, and say, with face a=
nd
voice full of motherly love, gratitude,&nb=
sp;
and humility...
"Oh, my girls, however = long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!"