Little Women by Louisa May Alcott is a timeless novel that follows the lives of the four March sistersâMeg, Jo, Beth, and Amyâas they navigate the challenges of growing up during the American Civil War. Each sister grapples with her own dreams, struggles, and relationships, learning the value of family, love, and personal integrity along the way. Through their trials and triumphs, the story celebrates the bonds of sisterhood and the enduring pursuit of happiness and fulfillment.
- Chapter 1: Playing Pilgrims
- Chapter 2: A Merry Christmas
- Chapter 3: The Laurence Boy
- Chapter 4: Burdens
- Chapter 5: Being Neighborly
- Chapter 6: Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful
- Chapter 7: Amyâs Valley Of Humiliation
- Chapter 8: Jo Meets Apollyon
- Chapter 9: Meg Goes To Vanity Fair
- Chapter 10: The P.C. And P.O.
- Chapter 11: Experiments
- Chapter 12: Camp Laurence
- Chapter 13: Castles In The Air
- Chapter 14: Secrets
- Chapter 15: A Telegram
- Chapter 16: Letters
- Chapter 17: Little Faithful
- Chapter 18: Dark Days
- Chapter 19: Amyâs Will
- Chapter 20: Confidential
- Chapter 21: Laurie Makes Mischief, And Jo Makes Peace
- Chapter 22: Pleasant Meadows
- Chapter 23: Aunt March Settles The Question
- Chapter 24: Gossip
- Chapter 25: The First Wedding
- Chapter 26: Artistic Attempts
- Chapter 27: Literary Lessons
- Chapter 28: Domestic Experiences
- Chapter 29: Calls
- Chapter 30: Consequences
- Chapter 31: Our Foreign Correspondent
- Chapter 32: Tender Troubles
- Chapter 33: Joâs Journal
- Chapter 34: Friend
- Chapter 35: Heartache
- Chapter 36: Bethâs Secret
- Chapter 37: New Impressions
- Chapter 38: On The Shelf
- Chapter 39: Lazy Laurence
- Chapter 40: The Valley Of The Shadow
- Chapter 41: Learning To Forget
- Chapter 42: All Alone
- Chapter 43: Surprises
- Chapter 44: My Lord And Lady
- Chapter 45: Daisy And Demi
- Chapter 46: Under The Umbrella
- Chapter 47: Harvest Time
- Free downloads: PDF & Audiobook
Chapter 1: Playing Pilgrims
âChristmas wonât be Christmas without any presents,â grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
âItâs so dreadful to be poor!â sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
âI donât think itâs fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,â added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
âWeâve got Father and Mother, and each other,â 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, âWe havenât got Father, and shall not have him for a long time.â She didnât say âperhaps never,â but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, âYou know the reason Mother 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 canât do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I donât,â and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
âBut I donât think the little we should spend would do any good. Weâve each got a dollar, and the army wouldnât be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. Iâve wanted it so long,â said Jo, who was a bookworm.
âI planned to spend mine in new music,â said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.
âI shall get a nice box of Faberâs drawing pencils; I really need them,â said Amy decidedly.
âMother didnât say anything about our money, and she wonât wish us to give up everything. Letâs each buy what we want, and have a little fun; Iâm sure we work hard enough to earn it,â cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
âI know I doâteaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when Iâm longing to enjoy myself at home,â began Meg, in the complaining tone again.
âYou donât have half such a hard time as I do,â said Jo. âHow 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 youâre ready to fly out the window or cry?â
âItâs 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 canât practice well at all.â And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
âI donât believe any of you suffer as I do,â cried Amy, âfor you donât have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you donât know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isnât rich, and insult you when your nose isnât nice.â
âIf you mean libel, Iâd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle,â advised Jo, laughing.
âI know what I mean, and you neednât be statirical about it. Itâs proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,â returned Amy, with dignity.
âDonât peck at one another, children. Donât you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good weâd be, if we had no worries!â said Meg, who could remember better times.
âYou said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.â
âSo 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.â
âJo does use such slang words!â observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug.
Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
âDonât, Jo. Itâs so boyish!â
âThatâs why I do it.â
âI detest rude, unladylike girls!â
âI hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!â
âBirds in their little nests agree,â sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the âpeckingâ ended for that time.
âReally, girls, you are both to be blamed,â said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. âYou are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didnât 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 are a young lady.â
âIâm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, Iâll wear it in two tails till Iâm twenty,â cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. âI hate to think Iâve got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! Itâs bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boyâs games and work and manners! I canât get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And itâs worse than ever now, for Iâm dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!â
And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
âPoor Jo! Itâs too bad, but it canât be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls,â said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.
âAs for you, Amy,â continued Meg, âyou are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but youâll grow up an affected little goose, if you donât take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you donât try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Joâs slang.â
âIf Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?â asked Beth, ready to share the lecture.
âYouâre a dear, and nothing else,â answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the âMouseâ was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know âhow people lookâ, 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 comfortable 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 peace 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 seemed 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 Jo, 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 didnât like 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 peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her âLittle Miss Tranquilityâ, and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world 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 least. 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, having 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 coming, 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.
âThey are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.â
âI thought Iâd get her some with my dollar,â said Beth.
âNo, I shall!â cried Amy.
âIâm the oldest,â began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, âIâm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.â
âIâll tell you what weâll do,â said Beth, âletâs each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.â
âThatâs like you, dear! What will we get?â 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, âI shall give her a nice pair of gloves.â
âArmy shoes, best to be had,â cried Jo.
âSome handkerchiefs, all hemmed,â said Beth.
âIâll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it wonât cost much, so Iâll have some left to buy my pencils,â added Amy.
âHow will we give the things?â asked Meg.
âPut them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Donât you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?â answered Jo.
âI used to be so frightened 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,â said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time.
âLet 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,â said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.
âI donât mean to act any more after this time. Iâm getting too old for such things,â observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about âdressing-upâ frolics.
âYou wonât 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 weâve got, and thereâll be an end of everything if you quit the boards,â said Jo. âWe ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.â
âI canât help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I donât choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, Iâll drop. If I canât, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I donât care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,â returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
âDo it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, âRoderigo! Save me! Save me!ââ 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 âOw!â was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. âItâs no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, donât blame me. Come on, Meg.â
Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, âHa! Ha!â
âItâs the best weâve had yet,â said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.
âI donât see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. Youâre a regular Shakespeare!â exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
âNot quite,â replied Jo modestly. âI do think The Witches Curse, an Operatic Tragedy is rather a nice thing, but Iâd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. âIs that a dagger that I see before me?â muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
âNo, itâs the toasting fork, with Motherâs shoe on it instead of the bread. Bethâs stage-struck!â cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.
âGlad to find you so merry, my girls,â said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a âcan I help youâ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.
âWell, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didnât come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.â
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 to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.
As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, âIâve got a treat for you after supper.â
A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, âA letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!â
âYes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,â said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.
âHurry and get done! Donât stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy,â cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet 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.
âI think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,â said Meg warmly.
âDonât I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivanâwhatâs its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him,â exclaimed Jo, with a groan.
âIt must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,â sighed Amy.
âWhen will he come home, Marmee?â asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.
âNot for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we wonât ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.â
They all drew to the fire, Mother 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 written 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 faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writerâs heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
âGive them all of my dear 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 long 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 said 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.â Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasnât 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 motherâs shoulder and sobbed out, âI am a selfish girl! But Iâll truly try to be better, so he maynât be disappointed in me by-and-by.â
âWe all will,â cried Meg. âI think too much of my looks and hate to work, but wonât any more, if I can help it.â
âIâll try and be what he loves to call me, âa little womanâ and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,â 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, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home.
Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Joâs words, by saying in her cheery voice, âDo you remember 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 burdens, 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.â
âWhat fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,â said Jo.
âI liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,â said Meg.
âI donât remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasnât too old for such things, Iâd rather like to play it over again,â said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve.
âWe never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our 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, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home.â
âReally, Mother? Where are our bundles?â asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady.
âEach of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather think she hasnât got any,â said her mother.
âYes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people.â
Bethâs bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.
âLet us do it,â said Meg thoughtfully. âIt is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to be good, itâs hard work and we forget, and donât do our best.â
âWe were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?â asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.
âLook under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook,â replied Mrs. March.
They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Joâs plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, 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, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music 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 like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp…
Crinkle, crinkle, âittle âtar,
and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby.
Chapter 2: A Merry Christmas
Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment 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 motherâs 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 âMerry Christmas,â 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 vanities, 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.
âGirls,â said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, âMother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day.â
Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face.
âHow good Meg is! Come, Amy, letâs do as they do. Iâll help you with the hard words, and theyâll explain things if we donât understand,â whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sistersâ example.
âIâm glad mine is blue,â said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.
âWhere is Mother?â asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later.
âGoodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-begginâ, and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givinâ away vittles and drink, clothes and firinâ,â replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.
âShe will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,â 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. âWhy, where is Amyâs bottle of cologne?â she added, as the little flask did not appear.
âShe took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion,â replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers.
âHow nice my handkerchiefs look, donât they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,â said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.
âBless the child! Sheâs gone and put âMotherâ on them instead of âM. Marchâ. How funny!â cried Jo, taking one up.
âIsnât that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Megâs initials are M.M., and I donât want anyone to use these but Marmee,â said Beth, looking troubled.
âItâs 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,â said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.
âThereâs Mother. Hide the basket, quick!â cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.
Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.
âWhere have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?â asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early.
âDonât laugh at me, Jo! I didnât mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and Iâm truly trying not to be selfish any more.â
As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her âa trumpâ, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.
âYou see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and Iâm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.â
Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.
âMerry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day,â they all cried in chorus.
âMerry Christmas, little daughters! Iâm 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 baby. 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 breakfast as a Christmas present?â
They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, âIâm so glad you came before we began!â
âMay I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?â asked Beth eagerly.
âI shall take the cream and the muffings,â added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked.
Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate.
âI thought youâd do it,â said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. âYou shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.â
They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few 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, trying to keep warm.
How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
âAch, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!â said the poor woman, crying for joy.
âFunny angels in hoods and mittens,â said Jo, and set them to laughing.
In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made 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, while 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 like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English.
âDas ist gut!â âDie Engel-kinder!â 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 âSanchoâ ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didnât get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning.
âThatâs loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,â 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 tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.
âSheâs coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!â 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. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined 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 scented with Amyâs cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.
There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in 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 ceremonies 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 they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique 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 in 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 heartâs content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Joâs 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 otherwise 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.
âA gloomy wood,â according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green 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 was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam 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, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugoâs 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, âWhat ho, minion! I need thee!â
Out came Meg, with gray horsehair 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 to destroy 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 home,
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 philter which I need.
Make it sweet and swift and strong,
Spirit, answer now my song!
A soft strain of music sounded, 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 well,
Or its power will vanish soon!
And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witchâs feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely 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 Hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, 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 discussing the merits of the play.
A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiece 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 lamp 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 and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the 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 hand on Roderigoâs shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when âAlas! Alas for Zara!â she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower 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, exclaiming, âI told you so! I told you so!â With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside…
âDonât laugh! Act as if it was all right!â and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon 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 little 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 hall, 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 timid little servant, âBear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.â The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the âminionâ, 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 wits, 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 villainâs 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 despairing 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 stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she wonât hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo 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 and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesnât 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 glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedroâs 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 many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with âMrs. Marchâs compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.â
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 anything 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 bouquets of hot house flowers.
It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
âIs it fairies?â asked Amy.
âSanta Claus,â said Beth.
âMother did it.â And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows.
âAunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,â cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.
âAll wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,â replied Mrs. March.
âThe Laurence boyâs grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We donât know him!â exclaimed Meg.
âHannah 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 could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast.â
âThat boy put it into his head, I know he did! Heâs a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if heâd like to know us but heâs bashful, and Meg is so prim she wonât let me speak to him when we pass,â said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.
âYou mean the people who live in the big house next door, donât you?â asked one of the girls. âMy mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says heâs very proud and doesnât like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isnât riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didnât come. Mother says heâs very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.â
âOur 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, Iâm sure he does,â said Jo decidedly.
âI like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so Iâve 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.â
âItâs a mercy you didnât, Mother!â laughed Jo, looking at her boots. âBut weâll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps heâll help act. Wouldnât that be jolly?â
âI never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!â And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.
âThey are lovely. But Bethâs roses are sweeter to me,â said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, âI wish I could send my bunch to Father. Iâm afraid he isnât having such a merry Christmas as we are.â
Chapter 3: The Laurence Boy
âJo! Jo! Where are you?â cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
âHere!â answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Joâs favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didnât mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.
âSuch fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!â cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.
ââMrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Yearâs Eve.â Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?â
âWhatâs the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we havenât got anything else?â answered Jo with her mouth full.
âIf I only had a silk!â sighed Meg. âMother says I may when Iâm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait.â
âIâm 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, and I canât take any out.â
âYou 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 arenât as nice as Iâd like.â
âMine are spoiled with lemonade, and I canât get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,â said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
âYou must have gloves, or I wonât go,â cried Meg decidedly. âGloves are more important than anything else. You canât dance without them, and if you donât I should be so mortified.â
âThen Iâll stay still. I donât care much for company dancing. Itâs no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.â
âYou canât ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldnât get you any more this winter. Canât you make them do?â
âI can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. Thatâs all I can do. No! Iâll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Donât you see?â
âYour hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully,â began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
âThen Iâll go without. I donât care what people say!â cried Jo, taking up her book.
âYou may have it, you may! Only donât stain it, and do behave nicely. Donât put your hands behind you, or stare, or say âChristopher Columbus!â will you?â
âDonât worry about me. Iâll be as prim as 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.â
So Meg went away to âaccept with thanksâ, 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 Yearâs 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 âgetting ready for the partyâ. 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 house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
âOught they to smoke like that?â asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
âItâs the dampness drying,â replied Jo.
âWhat a queer smell! Itâs like burned feathers,â observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
âThere, now Iâll take off the papers and youâll see a cloud of little ringlets,â 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.
âOh, oh, oh! What have you done? Iâm spoiled! I canât go! My hair, oh, my hair!â wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
âJust my luck! You shouldnât have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. Iâm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so Iâve made a mess,â groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret.
âIt isnât 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. Iâve seen many girls do it so,â said Amy consolingly.
âServes me right for trying to be fine. I wish Iâd let my hair alone,â cried Meg petulantly.
âSo do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,â 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 Joâs hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Megâs 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 chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect âquite easy and fineâ. Megâs high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Joâs nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.
âHave a good time, dearies!â said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. âDonât eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you.â As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window…
âGirls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?â
âYes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,â cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, âI do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake.â
âIt is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,â replied Meg, who had a good many little âaristocratic tastesâ of her own.
âNow donât forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?â said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardinerâs dressing room after a prolonged prink.
âI know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?â returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.
âNo, winking isnât ladylike. Iâll 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 donât shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isnât the thing.â
âHow do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isnât that music gay?â
Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them 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 didnât 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 alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the âLaurence boyâ.
âDear me, I didnât know anyone was here!â 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, âDonât mind me, stay if you like.â
âShanât I disturb you?â
âNot a bit. I only came here because I donât know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know.â
âSo did I. Donât go away, please, unless youâd rather.â
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, âI think Iâve had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, donât you?â
âNext door.â And he looked up and laughed outright, for Joâs 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, âWe did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.â
âGrandpa sent it.â
âBut you put it into his head, didnât you, now?â
âHow is your cat, Miss March?â asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun.
âNicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, Iâm only Jo,â returned the young lady.
âIâm not Mr. Laurence, Iâm only Laurie.â
âLaurie Laurence, what an odd name.â
âMy first name is Theodore, but I donât like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.â
âI 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?â
âI thrashed âem.â
âI canât thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.â And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
âDonât you like to dance, Miss Jo?â asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.
âI like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this Iâm sure to upset something, tread on peopleâs toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Donât you dance?â
âSometimes. You see Iâve been abroad a good many years, and havenât been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.â
âAbroad!â cried Jo. âOh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels.â
Laurie didnât seem to know where to begin, but Joâs 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 with their teachers.
âDonât I wish Iâd been there!â cried Jo. âDid you go to Paris?â
âWe spent last winter there.â
âCan you talk French?â
âWe were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.â
âDo say some! I can read it, but canât pronounce.â
âQuel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?â
âHow nicely you do it! Let me see … you said, âWho is the young lady in the pretty slippersâ, didnât you?â
âOui, mademoiselle.â
âItâs my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?â
âYes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.â
Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurieâs bashfulness soon wore off, for Joâs gentlemanly demeanor amused and 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 âLaurence boyâ better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.
âCurly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?â
It was on the tip of Joâs tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.
âI suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard.â And Jo blushed at the dreadful âpeggingâ which had escaped her.
Laurie smiled but didnât seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. âNot for a year or two. I wonât go before seventeen, anyway.â
âArenât you but fifteen?â asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.
âSixteen, next month.â
âHow I wish I was going to college! You donât look as if you liked it.â
âI hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I donât like the way fellows do either, in this country.â
âWhat do you like?â
âTo live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.â
Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, âThatâs a splendid polka! Why donât you go and try it?â
âIf you will come too,â he answered, with a gallant little bow.
âI canât, for I told Meg I wouldnât, because…â There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
âBecause, what?â
âYou wonât tell?â
âNever!â
âWell, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though itâs 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.â
But Laurie didnât laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, âNever mind that. Iâll tell you how we can manage. Thereâs a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.â
Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which 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 studentsâ festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
âIâve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I donât know how Iâm ever going to get home,â she said, rocking to and fro in pain.
âI knew youâd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. Iâm sorry. But I donât see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,â answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
âI canât have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I canât get one at all, for most people come in their own, and itâs a long way to the stable, and no one to send.â
âIâll go.â
âNo, indeed! Itâs past nine, and dark as Egypt. I canât stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. Iâll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.â
âIâll ask Laurie. He will go,â said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her.
âMercy, no! Donât ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I canât dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes.â
âThey are going out to supper now. Iâll stay with you. Iâd rather.â
âNo, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. Iâm so tired I canât stir.â
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 Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back.
âOh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!â exclaimed Jo, finishing Megâs glove by scrubbing her gown with it.
âCan I help you?â said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
âI was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me, and here I am in a nice state,â answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
âToo bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to your sister?â
âOh, thank you! Iâll show you where she is. I donât offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.â
Jo led the way, and as if used 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 particular Meg pronounced him a ânice boyâ. 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 other 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 exclamation of pain.
âHush! Donât say anything,â she whispered, adding aloud, âItâs nothing. I turned my foot a little, thatâs all,â and limped upstairs to put her things on.
Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her witsâ end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfatherâs carriage, which had just come for him, he said.
âItâs so early! You canât mean to go yet?â began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.
âI always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. Itâs all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.â
That settled it, and telling him of Megâs mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest 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.
âI had a capital time. Did you?â asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable.
âYes, till I hurt myself. Sallieâs 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,â answered Meg, cheering up at the thought.
âI saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?â
âOh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him.â
âHe looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldnât help laughing. Did you hear us?â
âNo, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?â
Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out…
âTell about the party! Tell about the party!â
With what Meg called âa great want of mannersâ Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening.
âI declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to wait on me,â said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair.
âI donât believe fine young 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 are silly enough to wear them.â And I think Jo was quite right.
Chapter 4: Burdens
âOh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,â 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.
âI wish it was Christmas or New Yearâs all the time. Wouldnât it be fun?â answered Jo, yawning dismally.
âWe shouldnât enjoy ourselves 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. Itâs like other people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, Iâm so fond of luxury,â said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby.
âWell, we canât have it, so donât let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. Iâm sure Aunt March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when Iâve learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that I shanât mind her.â
This idea tickled Joâs fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg didnât brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most becoming way.
âWhereâs the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether Iâm pretty or not?â she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk. âI shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because Iâm poor and canât enjoy my life as other girls do. Itâs a shame!â
So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasnât 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 couldnât find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready.
Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didnât suit her.
âThere never was such a cross family!â cried Jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her hat.
âYouâre the crossest person in it!â returned Amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
âBeth, if you donât keep these horrid cats down cellar Iâll have them drowned,â exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach.
Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she couldnât remember how much nine times twelve was.
âGirls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,â 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 âmuffsâ, for they had no others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands 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.
âCuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. We are a set of rascals this morning, but weâll come home regular angels. Now then, Meg!â And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.
They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. Somehow it seemed as if they couldnât 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.
âIf Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen,â cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind.
âDonât use such dreadful expressions,â replied Meg from the depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
âI like good strong words that mean something,â replied Jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away altogether.
âCall yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a wretch and I donât choose to be called so.â
âYouâre a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you canât 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.â
âHow ridiculous you are, Jo!â But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself.
âLucky for you I am, for 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. Donât croak any more, but come home jolly, thereâs a dear.â
Jo gave her sister an encouraging 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 spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.
When Mr. March lost his property 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 which 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 âfond of luxuryâ, and her chief trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, 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 Kingsâ she daily saw all she wanted, for the childrenâs older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom 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 March, 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 ladyâs will, but the unworldly Marches only said…
âWe canât give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will keep together and be happy in one another.â
The old lady wouldnât speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo at a friendâs, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck the old ladyâs 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 oneâs surprise, got on remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldnât bear it longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
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 used 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 staring 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 library a region of bliss to her.
The moment Aunt March took her 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, and 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 sweetest verse of a song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice called, âJosy-phine! Josy-phine!â and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belshamâs Essays by the hour together.
Joâs ambition was to do something 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 couldnât 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 life was a series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training she received at Aunt Marchâs was just what she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite of the perpetual âJosy-phine!â
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 Soldiersâ Aid Societies, Beth went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She 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 still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished 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 words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, 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 touched 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 sang it lullabies and never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering tenderly, âI hope youâll have a good night, my poor dear.â
Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but a very human little girl, she often âwept a little weepâ as Jo said, because she couldnât take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced 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 wouldnât keep in tune, when she was all alone. 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, âI know Iâll get my music some time, if Iâm good.â
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 the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, 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, âMy nose.â When she was a baby, Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor âPetreaâsâ, it was only rather flat, 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 ones to console herself.
âLittle Raphael,â 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 with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums 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 fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well 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 besides 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, âWhen Papa was rich we did so-and-so,â which was very touching, and her long words were considered âperfectly elegantâ by the girls.
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 cousinâs clothes. Now Florenceâs mama hadnât 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, well made, and little worn, but Amyâs artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming.
âMy only comfort,â she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, âis that Mother doesnât take tucks in my dresses whenever Iâm naughty, as Maria Parksâs mother does. My dear, itâs really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she canât come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.â
Meg was Amyâs confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was gentle Bethâs. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, âplaying motherâ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.
âHas anybody got anything to tell? Itâs been such a dismal day Iâm really dying for some amusement,â said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.
âI had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, Iâll tell you about it,â began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. âI 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 made myself sleepy, and before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.â
âI wish I could, and be done with it,â said I, trying not to be saucy.
âThen she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just âlostâ herself for a moment. She never finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the Vicar of Wakefield out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. Iâd just 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 Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said…
ââI donât understand what itâs all about. Go back and begin it, child.ââ
âBack 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, âIâm afraid it tires you, maâam. Shanât I stop now?ââ
âShe caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, âFinish the chapter, and donât be impertinent, missâ.â
âDid she own she liked it?â asked Meg.
âOh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that she didnât hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she chose! I donât envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,â added Jo.
âThat reminds me,â said Meg, âthat Iâve got something to tell. It isnât funny, like Joâs story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came home. At the Kingsâ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so I shouldnât see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didnât ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was rather glad I hadnât any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family.â
âI think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than anything bad boys can do,â said Amy, shaking her head, as if her experience of life had been a deep one. âSusie 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, and the words, âYoung ladies, my eye is upon you!â coming out of his mouth in a balloon 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 earâthe ear! Just fancy how horrid!âand led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so everyone could see.â
âDidnât the girls laugh at the picture?â asked Jo, who relished the scrape.
âLaugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know she did. I didnât envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian rings wouldnât have made me happy after that. I never, never should have got over such a agonizing mortification.â And Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.
âI saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at dinner, but I forgot,â said Beth, putting Joâs topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked. âWhen I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr. Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didnât see me, for I kept behind the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadnât any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a dayâs work. Mr. Cutter was in a hurry and said âNoâ, 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 glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him over and over. He told her to âgo along and cook itâ, and she hurried off, so happy! Wasnât it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurenceâs bed in heaven would be âaisyâ.â
When they had laughed at Bethâs story, they asked their mother for one, and after a moments thought, she said soberly, âAs I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should 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 anxious.
ââHave you sons in the army?â I asked, for the note he brought was not to me.â
âYes, maâam. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and Iâm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.â he answered quietly.â
ââYou have done a great deal for your country, sir,â I said, feeling respect now, instead of pity.â
ââNot a mite more than I ought, maâam. Iâd go myself, if I was any use. As I ainât, I give my boys, and give âem free.ââ
âHe spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that I was ashamed of myself. Iâd given one man and thought it too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy 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.â
âTell 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,â said Jo, after a minuteâs 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.
âOnce upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.â (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) âThese girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, âIf only we had this,â or âIf we could only do that,â quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, âWhen you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.ââ (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)
âBeing sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldnât keep shame and sorrow out of rich peopleâs 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 couldnât 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 should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old womanâs advice.â
âNow, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!â cried Meg.
âI like that kind of sermon. Itâs the sort Father used to tell us,â said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Joâs cushion.
âI donât complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for Iâve had warning from Susieâs downfall,â said Amy morally.
âWe needed that lesson, and we wonât forget it. If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in Uncle Tom, âTink ob yer marcies, chillen!â âTink ob yer marcies!ââ 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.
Chapter 5: Being Neighborly
âWhat in the world are you going to do now, Jo?â asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.
âGoing out for exercise,â answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
âI should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! Itâs cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do,â said Meg with a shiver.
âNever take advice! Canât keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I donât like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and Iâm going to find some.â
Meg went back to toast her feet 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 Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marchesâ house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large 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 that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other 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, lifeless 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 Joâs lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which 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 knew 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.
âThat boy is suffering for society and fun,â she said to herself. âHis grandpa does not know whatâs good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. Iâve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!â
The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of âgoing overâ was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.
âThere he is,â thought Jo, âPoor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. Itâs a shame! Iâll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.â
Up went a handful of soft snow, 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 called out…
âHow do you do? Are you sick?â
Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven…
âBetter, thank you. Iâve had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.â
âIâm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?â
âNothing. Itâs dull as tombs up here.â
âDonât you read?â
âNot much. They wonât let me.â
âCanât somebody read to you?â
âGrandpa does sometimes, but my books donât interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.â
âHave someone come and see you then.â
âThere isnât anyone Iâd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak.â
âIsnât there some nice girl whoâd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse.â
âDonât know any.â
âYou know us,â began Jo, then laughed and stopped.
âSo I do! Will you come, please?â cried Laurie.
âIâm not quiet and nice, but Iâll come, if Mother will let me. Iâll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.â
With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering 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 âa little gentlemanâ, and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color, and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for âMr. Laurieâ, and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.
âAll right, show her up, itâs Miss Jo,â 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 Bethâs three kittens in the other.
âHere I am, bag and baggage,â she said briskly. âMother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew youâd laugh at them, but I couldnât refuse, she was so anxious to do something.â
It so happened that Bethâs funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.
âThat looks too pretty to eat,â he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amyâs pet geranium.
âIt isnât anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. Itâs so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!â
âIt might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I donât know how to make them mind. It worries me though.â
âIâll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, soâand the things made straight on the mantelpiece, soâand the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, youâre fixed.â
And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully…
âHow kind you are! Yes, thatâs what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company.â
âNo, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?â and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by.
âThank you! Iâve read all those, and if you donât mind, Iâd rather talk,â answered Laurie.
âNot a bit. Iâll talk all day if youâll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop.â
âIs Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?â asked Laurie with interest.
âYes, thatâs Beth. Sheâs my girl, and a regular good one she is, too.â
âThe pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?â
âHow did you find that out?â
Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, âWhy, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and when Iâm alone up here, I canât help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, itâs 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, I canât help watching it. I havenât got any mother, you know.â 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 Joâs warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there 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…
âWeâll 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, youâd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, sheâd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and weâd have jolly times. Wouldnât your grandpa let you?â
âI think he would, if your mother asked him. Heâs very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only heâs afraid I might be a bother to strangers,â began Laurie, brightening more and more.
âWe are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you neednât think youâd be a bother. We want to know you, and Iâve been trying to do it this ever so long. We havenât been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you.â
âYou see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesnât mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesnât 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.â
âThatâs bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then youâll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. It wonât last long if you keep going.â
Laurie turned red again, but wasnât offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.
âDo you like your school?â asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased.
âDonât go to school, Iâm a businessmanâgirl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,â answered Jo.
Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasnât manners to make too many inquiries into peopleâs affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.
Jo liked his good breeding, and didnât mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled.
Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, 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, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.
âOh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,â he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.
Much elated with her success, Jo did âtell onâ, all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Joâs delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.
âIf you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you neednât be afraid,â said Laurie, getting up.
âIâm not afraid of anything,â returned Jo, with a toss of the head.
âI donât believe you are!â exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.
The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, 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.
âWhat richness!â sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. âTheodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,â she added impressively.
âA fellow canât live on books,â said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite.
Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, âMercy me! Itâs your grandpa!â
âWell, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,â returned the boy, looking wicked.
âI think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I donât know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I donât think youâre any the worse for it,â said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.
âIâm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. Iâm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I couldnât bear to stop,â said Laurie gratefully.
âThe doctor to see you, sir,â and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
âWould you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,â said Laurie.
âDonât mind me. Iâm happy as a cricket here,â answered Jo.
Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, âIâm sure now that I shouldnât be afraid of him, for heâs got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isnât as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.â
âThank you, maâam,â said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.
Poor Jo blushed till she couldnât blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but 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 eyes, 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, âSo youâre not afraid of me, hey?â
âNot much, sir.â
âAnd you donât think me as handsome as your grandfather?â
âNot quite, sir.â
âAnd Iâve got a tremendous will, have I?â
âI only said I thought so.â
âBut you like me in spite of it?â
âYes, I do, sir.â
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, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, âYouâve got your grandfatherâs spirit, if you havenât 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.â
âThank you, sir,â And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly.
âWhat have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?â was the next question, sharply put.
âOnly trying to be neighborly, sir.â And Jo told how her visit came about.
âYou think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?â
âYes, 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 donât forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,â said Jo eagerly.
âTut, tut, tut! That was the boyâs affair. How is the poor woman?â
âDoing nicely, sir.â And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were.
âJust her fatherâs way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. Thereâs the tea bell, we have it early on the boyâs account. Come down and go on being neighborly.â
âIf youâd like to have me, sir.â
âShouldnât ask you, if I didnât.â And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
âWhat would Meg say to this?â thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.
âHey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?â 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.
âI didnât know youâd come, sir,â he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.
âThatâs evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman.â And having pulled the boyâs 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 boyâs face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.
âSheâs right, the lad is lonely. Iâll see what these little girls can do for him,â 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 had been one herself.
If the Laurences had been what Jo called âprim and pokyâ, she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. 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 liked to see, âPlease give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.â
They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but Joâs attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.
âDo you play?â she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression.
âSometimes,â he answered modestly.
âPlease do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth.â
âWonât you first?â
âDonât know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.â
So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the âLaurenceâ boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didnât 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.
âThat will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isnât bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? well, Iâm much obliged to you, and I hope youâll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.â
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.
âNo, it was me. He doesnât like to hear me play.â
âWhy not?â
âIâll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I canât.â
âNo need of that. I am not a young lady, and itâs only a step. Take care of yourself, wonât you?â
âYes, but you will come again, I hope?â
âIf you promise to come and see us after you are well.â
âI will.â
âGood night, Laurie!â
âGood night, Jo, good night!â
When all the afternoonâs adventures 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.
âMother, why didnât Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?â asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.
âI am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurieâs father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely 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 very 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 rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he âgloweredâ as Jo said.â
âDear me, how romantic!â exclaimed Meg.
âHow silly!â said Jo. âLet him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.â
âThatâs why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice,â said Meg, who was a little sentimental.
âWhat do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly,â cried Jo, who was not sentimental.
âI 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.â
âHe meant the blanc mange, I suppose.â
âHow stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course.â
âDid he?â And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before.
âI never saw such a girl! You donât know a compliment when you get it,â said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.
âI think they are great nonsense, and Iâll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurieâs a nice boy and I like him, and I wonât have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. Weâll all be good to him because he hasnât got any mother, and he may come over and see us, maynât he, Marmee?â
âYes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can.â
âI donât call myself a child, and Iâm not in my teens yet,â observed Amy. âWhat do you say, Beth?â
âI was thinking about our âPilgrimâs Progressâ,â answered Beth, who had not heard a word. âHow we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful.â
âWe have got to get by the lions first,â said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.
Chapter 6: Beth Finds The Palace Beautiful
The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very 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 their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was 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 found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. Marchâs 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. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that âthe Marches were regularly splendid girls.â With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother 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 tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always playing truant and running over to the Marchesâ.
âNever mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,â said the old gentleman. âThe good lady next door says he is studying too hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that Iâve been coddling the fellow as if Iâd been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He canât get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can.â
What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant 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 heartâs content, and Laurie played âlord of the manorâ in the most delightful style.
But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the âMansion of Blissâ, as Meg called it. She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said âHey!â so loud, that he frightened her so much her âfeet chattered on the floorâ, 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 enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurenceâs 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 great 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 nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurieâs lessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March…
âThe boy neglects his music now, and Iâm glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldnât some of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, maâam?â
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 instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile…
âThey neednât see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For Iâm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine oâclock.â
Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. âPlease, tell the young ladies what I say, and if they donât care to come, why, never mind.â Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way…
âOh sir, they do care, very very much!â
âAre you the musical girl?â he asked, without any startling âHey!â as he looked down at her very kindly.
âIâm Beth. I love it dearly, and Iâll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,â she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
âNot a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.â
âHow kind you are, sir!â
Beth blushed like a rose under 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 gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard…
âI had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day, madam.â And away 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, and 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 in 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 look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music 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 upon 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 music 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 isnât always the case, 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.
âMother, Iâm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I donât know any other way. Can I do it?â asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
âYes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making up,â replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Bethâs requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.
After many serious discussions 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 Laurieâs help, got them smuggled onto the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.
When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All day passed and 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 waved, and several joyful voices screamed…
âHereâs a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!â
âOh, Beth, heâs sent you…â 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, âLook there! Look there!â 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 âMiss Elizabeth March.â
âFor me?â gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.
âYes, all for you, my precious! Isnât it splendid of him? Donât you think heâs the dearest old man in the world? Hereâs the key in the letter. We didnât open it, but we are dying to know what he says,â cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.
âYou read it! I canât, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!â and Beth hid her face in Joâs apron, quite upset by her present.
Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were…
âMiss March: âDear Madamââ
âHow nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!â said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.
ââI have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any that suited me so well as yours,ââ continues Jo. ââHeartâs-ease 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 allow âthe old gentlemanâ to send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain ââYour grateful friend and humble servant, âJAMES LAURENCEâ.â
âThere, Beth, thatâs an honor to be proud of, Iâm 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, heâs given you her piano. That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,â said Jo, trying to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever been before.
âSee the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all complete,â added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying its beauties.
ââYour humble servant, James Laurenceâ. Only think of his writing that to you. Iâll tell the girls. Theyâll think itâs splendid,â said Amy, much impressed by the note.
âTry it, honey. Letâs hear the sound of the baby pianny,â said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.
So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard. It had evidently been newly 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.
âYouâll have to go and thank him,â said Jo, by way of a joke, for the idea of the childâs really going never entered her head.
âYes, I mean to. I guess Iâll go now, before I get frightened thinking about it.â And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the Laurencesâ door.
âWell, I wish I may die if it ainât the queerest thing I ever see! The pianny has turned her head! Sheâd never have gone in her right mind,â cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite speechless by the miracle.
They would have been still more 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, and when a gruff voice called out, âcome in!â 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 in her voice, âI came to thank you, sir, for…â But she didnât 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 kissed him.
If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldnât have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased 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 granddaughter 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, and touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.
When the girls saw that performance, 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, âWell, I do believe the world is coming to an end.â
Chapter 7: Amyâs Valley Of Humiliation
âThat boy is a perfect cyclops, isnât he?â said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
âHow dare you say so, when heâs got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too,â cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.
âI didnât say anything about his eyes, and I donât see why you need fire up when I admire his riding.â
âOh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops,â exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.
âYou neednât be so rude, itâs only a âlapse of lingyâ, as Mr. Davis says,â retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. âI just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,â she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
âWhy?â asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amyâs second blunder.
âI need it so much. Iâm dreadfully in debt, and it wonât be my turn to have the rag money for a month.â
âIn debt, Amy? What do you mean?â And Meg looked sober.
âWhy, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I canât pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop.â
âTell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls.â And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.
âWhy, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. Itâs nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks 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 sheâs mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesnât offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and Iâve had ever so many but havenât returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know.â
âHow much will pay them off and restore your credit?â asked Meg, taking out her purse.
âA quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Donât you like limes?â
âNot much. You may have my share. Hereâs the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isnât very plenty, you know.â
âOh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! Iâll have a grand feast, for I havenât tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldnât return them, and Iâm actually suffering for one.â
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 treat circulated through her âsetâ, and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley 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 appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snowâs cutting remarks about âsome persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other peopleâs limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for themâ, and she instantly crushed âthat Snow girlâsâ hopes by the withering telegram, âYou neednât be so polite all of a sudden, for you wonât get any.â
A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amyâs 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 question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk.
Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person 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 the 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, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies 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 evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always 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, âHe was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bearâ. The word âlimesâ 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 unusual rapidity.
âYoung ladies, attention, if you please!â
At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.
âMiss March, come to the desk.â
Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
âBring with you the limes you have in your desk,â was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
âDonât take all.â 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 possessing 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.
âIs that all?â
âNot quite,â stammered Amy.
âBring the rest immediately.â
With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
âYou are sure there are no more?â
âI never lie, sir.â
âSo I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window.â
There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump 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 over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. Thisâthis was too much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.
As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous âHem!â and said, in his most impressive manner…
âYoung ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am 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.â
Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with âold Davisâ, as, of course, he was called, and itâs 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 culpritâs fate.
âYour hand, Miss March!â 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 without 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 she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.
âYou will now stand on the platform till recess,â 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 that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could 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 seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic figure before them.
During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had 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, âI shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!â
The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, and the word âRecess!â had never seemed so welcome to her before.
âYou can go, Miss March,â said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.
He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched her things, and left the place âforever,â 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 not say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and Hannah shook her fist at the âvillainâ and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.
No notice was taken of Amyâs flight, except by her mates, but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amyâs property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.
âYes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth,â said Mrs. March that evening. âI donât approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davisâs manner of teaching and donât think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your fatherâs advice before I send you anywhere else.â
âThatâs good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. Itâs perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,â sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.
âI am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience,â was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
âDo you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?â cried Amy.
âI should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,â replied her mother, âbut Iâm not sure that it wonât do you more good than a bolder 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 parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty.â
âSo it is!â cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. âI knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didnât know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldnât have believed it if anyone had told her.â
âI wish Iâd known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, Iâm so stupid,â said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
âYou do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,â answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.
Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them 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 side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, âIs Laurie an accomplished boy?â
âYes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,â replied her mother.
âAnd he isnât conceited, is he?â asked Amy.
âNot in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so much.â
âI see. Itâs nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up,â said Amy thoughtfully.
âThese things are always seen and felt in a personâs manner and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display them,â said Mrs. March.
âAny more than itâs proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know youâve got them,â added Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.
Chapter 8: Jo Meets Apollyon
âGirls, where are you going?â asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
âNever mind. Little girls shouldnât ask questions,â returned Jo sharply.
Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to ârun away, dearâ is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, âDo tell me! I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I havenât got anything to do, and am so lonely.â
âI canât, dear, because you arenât invited,â began Meg, but Jo broke in impatiently, âNow, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You canât go, Amy, so donât be a baby and whine about it.â
âYou are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when I came in. Arenât you going with him?â
âYes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering.â
Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.
âI know! I know! Youâre going to the theater to see the Seven Castles!â she cried, adding resolutely, âand I shall go, for Mother said I might see it, and Iâve got my rag money, and it was mean not to tell me in time.â
âJust listen to me a minute, and be a good child,â said Meg soothingly. âMother doesnât 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 have a nice time.â
âI donât like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me. Iâve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, Iâm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! Iâll be ever so good,â pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.
âSuppose we take her. I donât believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well,â began Meg.
âIf she goes I shanât, and if I donât, Laurie wonât like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think sheâd hate to poke herself where she isnât wanted,â 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, âI shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasnât anything to do with it.â
âYou canât sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustnât sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure. Or heâll get another seat for you, and that isnât proper when you werenât asked. You shanât stir a step, so you may just stay where you are,â 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 from 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 tone, âYouâll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ainât.â
âFiddlesticks!â returned Jo, slamming the door.
They had a charming time, for The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and princesses, Joâs pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy queenâs yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her âsorry for itâ. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both 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 having 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 patient effort to subdue it.
When they got home, they found 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 curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Joâs first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Joâs top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was 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 next 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, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, âHas anyone taken my book?â
Meg and Beth said, âNo.â 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.
âAmy, youâve got it!â
âNo, I havenât.â
âYou know where it is, then!â
âNo, I donât.â
âThatâs a fib!â cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.
âIt isnât. I havenât got it, donât know where it is now, and donât care.â
âYou know something about it, and youâd better tell at once, or Iâll make you.â And Jo gave her a slight shake.
âScold as much as you like, youâll never see your silly old book again,â cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
âWhy not?â
âI burned it up.â
âWhat! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?â said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.
âYes, I did! I told you Iâd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so…â
Amy got no farther, for Joâs hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger…
âYou wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and Iâll never forgive you as long as I live.â
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sisterâs 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, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Joâs book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family 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 them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amyâs 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 could 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 one 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 Amyâs courage to say meekly…
âPlease forgive me, Jo. Iâm very, very sorry.â
âI never shall forgive you,â was Joâs stern answer, and from that moment she ignored Amy entirely.
No one spoke of the great trouble, 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 Joâs 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, âMy dear, donât let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow.â
Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldnât quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was listening, âIt was an abominable thing, and she doesnât deserve to be forgiven.â
With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that her 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 superior 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 wouldnât even try when other people set them a virtuous example.
âEverybody is so hateful, Iâll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,â said Jo to herself, and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.
âThere! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But itâs no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.â
âDonât say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,â said Meg. âGo after them. Donât 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 Iâm sure sheâll be friends again with all her heart.â
âIâll try,â said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the 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.
âIâll go on to the first bend, and see if itâs all right before we begin to race,â 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 her 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 sisterâs 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 the bend, he shouted back…
âKeep near the shore. It isnât safe in the middle.â 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…
âNo matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.â
Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward 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 turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Joâs heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurieâs voice cried out…
âBring a rail. Quick, quick!â
How she did it, she never knew, 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 got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
âNow then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates,â cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands 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.
âAre you sure she is safe?â whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice.
âQuite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and wonât even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,â replied her mother cheerfully.
âLaurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault.â 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.
âItâs 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?â cried poor Jo, in despair.
âWatch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault,â said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried even harder.
âYou donât know, you canât guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when Iâm in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone and enjoy it. Iâm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!â
âI will, my child, I will. Donât 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 temptations, 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 like it.â
âYours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!â And for the moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise.
âIâve been trying to cure 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 still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.â
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence 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 girl of fifteen.
âMother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?â asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
âYes, Iâve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked,â answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Joâs disheveled hair.
âHow did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the sharp words fly out before I know what Iâm about, and the more I say the worse I get, till itâs a pleasure to hurt peopleâs feelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.â
âMy good mother used to help me…â
âAs you do us…â interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
âBut 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 and we were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.â
âPoor Mother! What helped you then?â
âYour father, Jo. He never 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 children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy.â
âOh, Mother, if Iâm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,â cried Jo, much touched.
âI hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch over your âbosom enemyâ, as father 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 brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.â
âI 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. Was he reminding you then?â asked Jo softly.
âYes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.â
Jo saw that her motherâs eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, âWas it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didnât mean to be rude, but itâs so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here.â
âMy Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how much I love them.â
âI thought Iâd grieved you.â
âNo, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him.â
âYet you told him to go, Mother, and didnât cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,â said Jo, wondering.
âI 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 donât 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 many, 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, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may 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.â
Joâs 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, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led by her motherâs hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than that 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, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
âI let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldnât forgive her, and today, if it hadnât been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?â said Jo, half aloud, 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 Joâs 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.
Chapter 9: Meg Goes To Vanity Fair
âI do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those children should have the measles just now,â said Meg, one April day, as she stood packing the âgo abroadyâ trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters.
âAnd so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,â replied Jo, looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.
âAnd such lovely weather, Iâm so glad of that,â added Beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion.
âI wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice things,â said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her sisterâs cushion.
âI wish you were all going, but as you canât, I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. Iâm sure itâs the least I can do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready,â said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
âWhat did Mother give you out of the treasure box?â asked Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.
âA pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isnât time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlaton.â
âIt will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadnât smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it,â said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
âThere 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,â replied Meg. âNow, let me see, thereâs my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesnât it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!â
âNever mind, youâve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white,â said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.
âIt isnât low-necked, and it doesnât sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as if Iâd got a new one. My silk sacque isnât a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesnât look like Sallieâs. I didnât 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 with a yellowish handle. Itâs strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annieâs silk one with a gold top,â sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.
âChange it,â advised Jo.
âI wonât be so silly, or hurt Marmeeâs feelings, when she took so much pains to get my things. Itâs a nonsensical notion of mine, and Iâm not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common.â And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.
âAnnie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put some on mine?â she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannahâs hands.
âNo, I wouldnât, for the smart caps wonât match the plain gowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldnât rig,â said Jo decidedly.
âI wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes and bows on my caps?â said Meg impatiently.
âYou said the other day that youâd be perfectly happy if you could only go to Annie Moffatâs,â observed Beth in her quiet way.
âSo I did! Well, I am happy, and I wonât fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wants, doesnât it? There now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for Mother to pack,â said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton, which she called her âball dressâ with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg 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 delightful after a winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and 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, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive 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 and conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffatâs pretty things, the more 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 stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in âhaving a good timeâ. 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 how to entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, 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 âDaiseyâ, as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin wouldnât do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallieâs 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 their 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 like 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 cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
âItâs for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are altogether ravishing,â cried Annie, with a great sniff.
âThey are for Miss March, the man said. And hereâs a note,â put in the maid, holding it to Meg.
âWhat fun! Who are they from? Didnât know you had a lover,â cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
âThe note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,â said Meg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
âOh, indeed!â 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 them so prettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was âthe sweetest little thing she ever sawâ, 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 roses in the dress that didnât strike her as so very shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heartâs content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who âthe fresh little girl with the beautiful eyesâ was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she âdidnât dawdle, but had some spring in herâ, as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, 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…
âHow old is he?â
âSixteen or seventeen, I should say,â replied another voice.
âIt would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldnât it? Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.â
âMrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesnât think of it yet,â said Mrs. Moffat.
âShe told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! Sheâd be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think sheâd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?â asked another voice.
âSheâs proud, but I donât believe sheâd mind, for that dowdy tarlaton is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one.â
Here Megâs partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride 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, âMrs. M. has made her plans,â âthat fib about her mamma,â and âdowdy tarlaton,â till she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, 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 opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till 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 manâs 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 night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody 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…
âDaisy, dear, Iâve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and itâs only a proper compliment to you.â
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely, âYou are very kind, but Iâm afraid he wonât come.â
âWhy not, Cherie?â asked Miss Belle.
âHeâs too old.â
âMy child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!â cried Miss Clara.
âNearly seventy, I believe,â answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes.
âYou sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,â exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
âThere isnât any, Laurie is only a little boy.â And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover.
âAbout your age,â Nan said.
âNearer my sister Joâs; I am seventeen in August,â returned Meg, tossing her head.
âItâs very nice of him to send you flowers, isnât it?â said Annie, looking wise about nothing.
âYes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together,â and Meg hoped they would say no more.
âItâs evident Daisy isnât out yet,â said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
âQuite a pastoral state of innocence all round,â returned Miss Belle with a shrug.
âIâm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?â asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace.
âNo, thank you, maâam,â replied Sallie. âIâve got my new pink silk for Thursday and donât want a thing.â
âNor I…â began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did want several things and could not have them.
âWhat shall you wear?â asked Sallie.
âMy old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night,â said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
âWhy donât you send home for another?â said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady.
âI havenât got any other.â It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, âOnly that? How funny…â She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly…
âNot at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isnât out yet? Thereâs no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for Iâve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which Iâve outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, wonât you, dear?â
âYou are very kind, but I donât mind my old dress if you donât, it does well enough for a little girl like me,â said Meg.
âNow do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and youâd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there. I shanât let anyone see you till you are done, and then weâll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,â said Belle in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldnât refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be âa little beautyâ after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle 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 Hortense would have added âa soupcon of rougeâ, if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver 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 satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
âMademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?â cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
âCome and show yourself,â said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others 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 âa little beautyâ. 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.
âWhile 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 donât any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,â said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
âYou donât look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. Iâm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and youâre quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, donât be so careful of them, and be sure you donât trip,â returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where 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 notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, 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…
âDaisy Marchâfather a colonel in the armyâone of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.â
âDear me!â 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. Moffatâs fibs. The âqueer feelingâ 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 fear lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting her 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 opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
âSilly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I wonât care for it, or let it change me a bit,â thought Meg, and rustled across the room to shake hands with her friend.
âIâm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldnât.â she said, with her most grown-up air.
âJo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,â answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone.
âWhat shall you tell her?â asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
âI shall say I didnât know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike yourself, Iâm quite afraid of you,â he said, fumbling at his glove button.
âHow absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldnât Jo stare if she saw me?â said Meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved or not.
âYes, I think she would,â returned Laurie gravely.
âDonât you like me so?â asked Meg.
âNo, I donât,â was the blunt reply.
âWhy not?â in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.
âI donât like fuss and feathers.â
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked away, saying petulantly, âYou are the rudest boy I ever saw.â
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying to his mother…
âThey are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but they have spoiled her entirely. Sheâs nothing but a doll tonight.â
âOh, dear!â sighed Meg. âI wish Iâd been sensible and worn my own things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.â
She leaned her forehead on the 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 Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out…
âPlease forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.â
âIâm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,â said Meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely.
âNot a bit of it, Iâm dying to do it. Come, Iâll be good. I donât like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid.â 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, âTake care my skirt doesnât trip you up. Itâs the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it.â
âPin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,â said Laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
âLaurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?â said Meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she would not own why.
âWonât I!â said Laurie, with alacrity.
âPlease donât tell them at home about my dress tonight. They wonât understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.â
âThen why did you do it?â said Laurieâs eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added…
âI shall tell them myself all about it, and âfessâ to Mother how silly Iâve been. But Iâd rather do it myself. So youâll not tell, will you?â
âI give you my word I wonât, only what shall I say when they ask me?â
âJust say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.â
âIâll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You donât look as if you were having a good time. Are you?â And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper…
âNo, not just now. Donât think Iâm horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesnât pay, I find, and Iâm getting tired of it.â
âHere comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?â 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.
âHe put his name down for three dances, and I suppose heâs coming for them. What a bore!â said Meg, assuming 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 âlike a pair of foolsâ, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed.
âYouâll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldnât, Meg, your mother doesnât like it, you know,â he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
âIâm not Meg tonight, Iâm âa dollâ who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my âfuss and feathersâ and be desperately good again,â she answered with an affected little laugh.
âWish tomorrow was here, then,â muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered 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. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.
âRemember!â she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.
âSilence a la mort,â replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.
This little bit of byplay excited Annieâs curiosity, but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadnât enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnightâs fun and feeling that she had âsat in the lap of luxuryâ long enough.
âIt does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isnât splendid,â said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
âIâm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,â replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick to see any change in childrenâs 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 bed, 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 Bethâs stool, leaned her elbows on her motherâs knee, saying bravely…
âMarmee, I want to âfessâ.â
âI thought so. What is it, dear?â
âShall I go away?â asked Jo discreetly.
âOf course not. Donât I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffatsâ.â
âWe are prepared,â said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious.
âI told you they dressed me up, but I didnât tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasnât proper. I know he did, though he didnât say so, and one man called me âa dollâ. 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.â
âIs that all?â asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.
âNo, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable,â said Meg self-reproachfully.
âThere is something more, I think.â And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly…
âYes. Itâs very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.â
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffatsâ, and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Megâs innocent mind.
âWell, if that isnât the greatest rubbish I ever heard,â cried Jo indignantly. âWhy didnât you pop out and tell them so on the spot?â
âI couldnât, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldnât help hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didnât remember that I ought to go away.â
âJust wait till I see Annie Moffat, and Iâll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having âplansâ and being kind to Laurie because heâs rich and may marry us by-and-by! Wonât he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?â And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.
âIf you tell Laurie, Iâll never forgive you! She mustnât, must she, Mother?â said Meg, looking distressed.
âNo, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,â said Mrs. March gravely. âI 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 about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.â
âDonât be sorry, I wonât let it hurt me. Iâll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. Iâll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know Iâm a silly little girl, and Iâll stay with you till Iâm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I canât help saying I like it,â said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.
âThat is perfectly natural, 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 worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.â
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little 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 world where she could not follow.
âMother, do you have âplansâ, as Mrs. Moffat said?â asked Meg bashfully.
âYes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffatâs, 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 subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothersâ lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my âplansâ and help me carry them out, if they are good.â
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 wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way…
âI 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 sincerely 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 joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the 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. Iâd rather see you poor menâs wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.â
âPoor girls donât stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward,â sighed Meg.
âThen weâll be old maids,â said Jo stoutly.
âRight, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,â said Mrs. March decidedly. âDonât be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, 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 your 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 confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.â
âWe will, Marmee, we will!â cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.
Chapter 10: The P.C. And P.O.
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 the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, âIâd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see âem in Chiny,â and so she might, for the girlsâ tastes differed as much as their characters. Megâs had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Joâs 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 and 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, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for 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 colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.
Gardening, walks, rows on the 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 âP.C.â, for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have 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 ceremonies 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 âP.C.â 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 editor. At seven oâclock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, 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 trying to do what she couldnât, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, 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:
âTHE PICKWICK PORTFOLIOâ
MAY 20, 18â
POETâS CORNER
ANNIVERSARY ODE
Again we meet to celebrate
With badge 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,
And 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 cold,
We joy to hear him speak,
For words of wisdom from him fall,
In spite of croak 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 eye,
He struggles âgainst his lot.
Behold ambition on his brow,
And on his nose, a blot.
Next our peaceful Tupman comes,
So rosy, plump, and sweet,
Who chokes with laughter at the puns,
And tumbles off his seat.
Prim little Winkle too is here,
With every hair in place,
A model of propriety,
Though he hates to wash his face.
The year is gone, we still unite
To joke and laugh and read,
And tread the path of literature
That doth to glory lead.
Long may our paper prosper well,
Our club unbroken be,
And coming years their blessings pour
On the useful, gay âP. C.â.
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. âHas your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?â asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm.
âYes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.â
âBy my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand,â returned the troubadour.
âTis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old Count,â 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 motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:
âMy lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.â 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 hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation.
âGladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.â
But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask 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.
âMy lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.â
The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, âTo you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage.â
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 became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman 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 with 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, put 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:â
I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes wonât write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he canât 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 work 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 acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.]
A SAD ACCIDENT
On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged 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 perilous 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 record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball 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 sitting at the gate, watching the butcherâs cart, and it is feared that some villain, 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 basket, 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 little pet,
And sigh oâer her hapless fate,
For never more by the fire sheâll sit,
Nor play by the old green gate.
The little grave where her infant sleeps
Is âneath the chestnut tree.
But oâer her grave we may not weep,
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 door.
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 âWOMAN AND HER POSITIONâ at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances.
A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend.
THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.
MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Dollâs 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 anything ever seen on the American stage. âTHE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,â is the name of this thrilling drama!!!
HINTS
If S.P. didnât use so much soap on his hands, he wouldnât always be late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T. please donât forget Amyâs napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.
WEEKLY REPORT
MegâGood.
JoâBad.
BethâVery Good.
AmyâMiddling.
As the President finished reading the 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.
âMr. President and gentlemen,â he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, âI wish to propose the admission of a new memberâone 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. Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.â
Joâs sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.
âWeâll put it to a vote,â said the President. âAll in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying, âAyeâ.â
A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybodyâs surprise, by a timid one from Beth.
âContrary-minded say, âNoâ.â
Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance, âWe donât wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladiesâ club, and we wish to be private and proper.â
âIâm afraid heâll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,â observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful.
Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. âSir, I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie wonât do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and heâll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being sentimental, donât 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 here, and make him welcome if he comes.â
This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
âYes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes.â
This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly. âNow then, vote again. Everybody remember itâs our Laurie, and say, âAye!ââ cried Snodgrass excitedly.
âAye! Aye! Aye!â replied three voices at once.
âGood! Bless you! Now, as thereâs nothing like âtaking time by the fetlockâ, as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present the new member.â And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.
âYou rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?â cried the three girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
âThe coolness of you two rascals is amazing,â began Mr. Pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown 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, âMr. President and ladiesâI beg pardon, gentlemenâallow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the club.â
âGood! Good!â cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan on which she leaned.
âMy faithful friend and noble patron,â continued Laurie with a wave of the hand, âwho 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.â
âCome now, donât lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the cupboard,â broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.
âNever mind what she says. Iâm the wretch that did it, sir,â said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. âBut on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of this immortal club.â
âHear! Hear!â cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a cymbal.
âGo on, go on!â added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed benignly.
âI 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, also the females, if I may be allowed the expression. Itâs the old martin house, but Iâve 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 your favor, take my seat.â
Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and 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, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add âspiritâ to the meetings, and âa toneâ 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, Milton, or Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.
The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and 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 Hannahâs charms, actually sent a love letter to Joâs 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.
Chapter 11: Experiments
âThe first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and Iâm free. Three monthsâ vacationâhow I shall enjoy it!â exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day 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.
âAunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!â said Jo. âI was mortally afraid sheâd 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 Iâd rather be excused. 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 sheâd 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, âJosyphine, wonât youâ?â I didnât hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe.â
âPoor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,â said Beth, as she cuddled her sisterâs feet with a motherly air.
âAunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?â observed Amy, tasting her mixture critically.
âShe means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesnât matter. Itâs too warm to be particular about oneâs parts of speech,â murmured Jo.
âWhat shall you do all your vacation?â asked Amy, changing the subject with tact.
âI shall lie abed late, and do nothing,â replied Meg, from the depths of the rocking chair. âIâve been routed up early all winter and had to spend my days working for other people, so now Iâm going to rest and revel to my heartâs content.â
âNo,â said Jo, âthat dozy way wouldnât suit me. Iâve laid in a heap of books, and Iâm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when Iâm not having lâââ
âDonât say âlarks!ââ implored Amy, as a return snub for the âsamphireâ correction.
âIâll say ânightingalesâ then, with Laurie. Thatâs proper and appropriate, since heâs a warbler.â
âDonât let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time and rest, as the girls mean to,â proposed Amy.
âWell, I will, if Mother doesnât 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.â
âMay we, Mother?â asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in what they called âMarmeeâs cornerâ.
âYou 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.â
âOh, dear, no! It will be delicious, Iâm sure,â said Meg complacently.
âI now propose a toast, as my âfriend and pardner, Sairy Gampâ, says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!â cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went round.
They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten oâclock. Her solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amyâs books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but âMarmeeâs cornerâ, which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to ârest and readâ, which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over The Wide, 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 left 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, smoothed 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 notes, and all agreed that it had been a delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the afternoon and got a âsweet blue muslinâ, had discovered, after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldnât wash, which mishap made her slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy Brownâs party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she had ânothing to wearâ. But these were mere trifles, and they assured their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said nothing, and with Hannahâs help did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the âresting and revelingâ process. The days kept getting longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers; an 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 furbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was sick of books, 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 occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her she was âa frightâ. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didnât like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldnât draw all the time. Tea parties didnât amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted. âIf one could have a fine house, full 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,â complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.
No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday night each acknowledged to herself that 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 play 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.
âMercy on us! What has happened?â cried Jo, staring about her in dismay.
Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.
âMother isnât sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. Itâs a very queer thing for her to do, she doesnât act a bit like herself. But she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustnât grumble but take care of ourselves.â
âThatâs easy enough, and I like the idea, Iâm aching for something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know,â added Jo quickly.
In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannahâs saying, âHousekeeping ainât no joke.â There was plenty of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.
âI shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for sheâd take care of herself,â said Meg, who presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.
So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the cookâs 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.
âPoor little souls, they will have a hard time, Iâm afraid, but they wonât suffer, and it will do them good,â 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 below, and great the chagrin of the head cook at her failures. âNever mind, Iâll get the dinner and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,â said Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs.
This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble 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.
âYouâd better see what you have got before you think of having company,â said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.
âOh, thereâs corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some asparagus and a lobster, âfor a relishâ, as Hannah says. Weâll have lettuce and make a salad. I donât know how, but the book tells. Iâll have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you want to be elegant.â
âDonât try too many messes, Jo, for you canât make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. 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.â
âI donât want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the pudding. Youâll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, wonât you?â asked Jo, rather hurt.
âYes, but I donât know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You had better ask Motherâs leave before you order anything,â returned Meg prudently.
âOf course I shall. Iâm not a fool.â And Jo went off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.
âGet what you like, and donât disturb me. Iâm going out to dinner and canât worry about things at home,â said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to her. âI never enjoyed housekeeping, and Iâm going to take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself.â
The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.
âEverything is out of sorts, somehow,â she said to herself, going downstairs. âThereâs Beth crying, thatâs a sure sign that something is wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, Iâll shake her.â
Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died.
âItâs all my fault, I forgot him, there isnât a seed or a drop left. Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?â 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.
âPut him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,â said Amy hopefully.
âHeâs been starved, and he shanât be baked now heâs dead. Iâll make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and Iâll never have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,â murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.
âThe funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, donât cry, Bethy. Itâs a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my box, and after the dinner party, weâll have a nice little funeral,â said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.
Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, 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.
âHereâs a sweet prospect!â muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.
Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that she had made good bargains, 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 arrived 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…
âI say, isnât bread ârizâ enough when it runs over the pans?â
Sallie began to laugh, but Meg 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 state 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 minutes later Miss Crocker appeared, and said sheâd come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin, 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 kind 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, criticized everything, and told stories 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 make 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 eat. 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 blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully âdeaconedâ.
âWell, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only itâs mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,â 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 Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.
Poor Jo would gladly have gone 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 talked and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Joâs 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 she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight 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.
âOh, what is it?â exclaimed Jo, trembling.
âSalt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,â 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 Laurieâs 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 âCroakerâ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.
âI havenât strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral,â said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friendâs dinner table.
They did sober themselves for Bethâs 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 moss, 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 forgotten 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 the afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.
Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon 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 them. 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.
âWhat a dreadful day this has been!â began Jo, usually the first to speak.
âIt has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,â said Meg.
âNot a bit like home,â added Amy.
âIt canât seem so without Marmee and little Pip,â sighed Beth, glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.
âHereâs Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you want it.â
As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
âAre you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another week of it?â she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.
âI donât!â cried Jo decidedly.
âNor I,â echoed the others.
âYou think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a little for others, do you?â
âLounging and larking doesnât pay,â observed Jo, shaking her head. âIâm tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off.â
âSuppose you learn plain cooking. Thatâs a useful accomplishment, which no woman should be without,â said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the recollection of Joâs dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and heard her account of it.
âMother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how weâd get on?â cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.
âYes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well, though I donât think you were very happy or amiable. So I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when everyone thinks only of herself. Donât 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 forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?â
âWe do, Mother, we do!â cried the girls.
âThen let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion.â
âWeâll work like bees, and love it too, see if we donât,â said Jo. âIâll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner party I have shall be a success.â
âIâll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though Iâm not fond of sewing. That will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are.â said Meg.
âIâll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,â was Bethâs resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically declaring, âI shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts of speech.â
âVery good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only donât 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, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty.â
âWeâll remember, Mother!â and they did.
Chapter 12: Camp Laurence
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 and parcels like the penny post.
âHereâs your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,â she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in âMarmeeâs cornerâ, and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
âMiss Meg March, one letter and a glove,â continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.
âWhy, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,â said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove. âDidnât you drop the other in the garden?â
âNo, Iâm sure I didnât, for there was only one in the office.â
âI hate to have odd gloves! 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 isnât Laurieâs writing.â
Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who 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 little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her motherâs mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.
âTwo letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post office and stuck outside,â said Beth, laughing as she went into the study where Jo sat writing.
âWhat a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, âWhy mind the fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!â I said I would if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me. Iâll wear it for fun, and show him I donât care for the fashion.â And hanging the antique broad-brim 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, that no one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover of your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe 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
âThat does me good! Thatâs worth millions of money and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I have you to help me.â
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 precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the person whose commendation 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 either 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 itâs fine, Iâm going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquetâhave 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 Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to come, canât let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her. Donât bother about rations, Iâll see to that and everything else, only do come, thereâs a good fellow!
In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.
âHereâs richness!â cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.
âOf 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.â
âI hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?â asked Meg.
âOnly that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didnât admire Kate much.â
âIâm so glad my French print is clean, itâs just the thing and so becoming!â observed Meg complacently. âHave you anything decent, Jo?â
âScarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp about, so I donât want any starch to think of. Youâll come, Betty?â
âIf you wonât let any boys talk to me.â
âNot a boy!â
âI like to please Laurie, and Iâm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so kind. But I donât want to play, or sing, or say anything. Iâll work hard and not trouble anyone, and youâll take care of me, Jo, so Iâll go.â
âThatâs my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love you for it. Fighting faults isnât easy, as I know, and a cheery word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother,â And Jo gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the rosy roundness of her youth.
âI had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,â said Amy, showing her mail.
âAnd 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,â added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
âNow letâs fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play tomorrow with free minds,â said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a broom.
When the sun peeped into the girlsâ 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 had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothespin 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 radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amyâs ornament.
Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sistersâ toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.
âThere goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. Thereâs Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Hereâs a carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame, poor thing, heâs got a crutch. Laurie didnât tell us that. Be quick, girls! Itâs getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Meg, isnât that the man who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?â
âSo it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the mountains. There is Sallie. Iâm glad she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?â cried Meg in a flutter.
âA regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff. Now then, come on!â
âOh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? Itâs too absurd! You shall not make a guy of yourself,â remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had sent for a joke.
âI just will, though, for itâs capital, so shady, light, and big. It will make fun, and I donât mind being a guy if Iâm comfortable.â With that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims.
Laurie ran to meet and present 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 grateful 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. Nedâs assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie âprimmed up his mouthâ when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a standoff-donât-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 one was not âdreadfulâ, but gentle 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 suddenly became very good friends.
Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water bug. Joâs 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 âoddâ, but rather clever, and smiled upon her from 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 âskill and dexterityâ. Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge. He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in college, 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 person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant 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 three wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for croquet.
âWelcome to Camp Laurence!â said the young host, as they landed with exclamations of delight.
âBrooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other fellows are staff officers, and you, 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, letâs have a game before it gets hot, and then weâll see about dinner.â
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 â76 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 and his turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped 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 side.
âIâm through! Now, Miss Jo, Iâll settle you, and get in first,â cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
âYou pushed it. I saw you. Itâs my turn now,â said Jo sharply.
âUpon my word, I didnât move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake.â
âWe donât cheat in America, but you can, if you choose,â said Jo angrily.
âYankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!â 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 her 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 Kateâs ball was the last but one and lay near the stake.
âBy George, itâs all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so you are finished,â cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish.
âYankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,â said Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, âespecially when they beat them,â she added, as, leaving Kateâs ball untouched, she won the game by a clever stroke.
Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldnât do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer to whisper to his friend, âGood for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him. We canât tell him so, but he wonât do it again, take my word for it.â
Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and said approvingly, âIt was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your temper, and Iâm so glad, Jo.â
âDonât praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should certainly have boiled over if I hadnât stayed among the nettles till I got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. Itâs simmering now, so I hope heâll keep out of my way,â returned Jo, biting her lips as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
âTime for lunch,â said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. âCommissary general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?â
âJo can,â 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 his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee 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 invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river with all his might and main.
âThereâs salt here,â said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.
âThank you, I prefer spiders,â she replied, fishing up two unwary little ones who had gone to a creamy death. âHow dare you remind me of that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?â added Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run short.
âI had an uncommonly good time that day, and havenât got over it yet. This is no credit to me, you know, I donât do anything. Itâs you and Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and Iâm no end obliged to you. What shall we do when we canât eat anymore?â asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.
âHave games till itâs cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. Sheâs company, and you ought to stay with her more.â
âArenât you company too? I thought sheâd suit Brooke, but he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous glass of hers. Iâm going, so you neednât try to preach propriety, for you canât do it, Jo.â
Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing room to play Rig-marole.
âOne person begins a story, 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 same. Itâs very funny when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke,â said Kate, with a commanding air, which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman.
Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river.
âOnce on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and 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 colt, 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 lessons to this pet of the kingâs, the knight rode him through the city, and as he rode, 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 princesses 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 poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and longing to see 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…â
âA ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, âAt last! At last!ââ continued Kate, who had read French novels, and admired the style. ââTis she!â cried Count Gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy. âOh, rise!â she said, extending a hand of marble fairness. âNever! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,â swore the knight, still kneeling. âAlas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.â âWhere is the villain?â âIn the mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.â âI obey, and return victorious or dead!â With these thrilling words he rushed away, and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received…â
âA stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a black gown fired at him,â said Ned. âInstantly, Sir Whatâs-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, paddled 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, went 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 steps he came plump upon a sight that took his breath away and chilled his blood…â
âA tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in its wasted hand,â went on Meg. âIt beckoned, gliding noiselessly before him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side, a dead 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 forward to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly before him a…â
âSnuffbox,â said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the audience. ââThankee,â said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. âHa! Ha!â laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked 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…â
âDance a hornpipe,â cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, âand, as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail. âUp with the jib, reef the topsâl halliards, helm hard alee, and man the guns!â roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. âGo in and win, my hearties!â says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course the British beatâthey always do.â
âNo, they donât!â cried Jo, aside.
âHaving 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 âCutlasses, and die hard!â âBosunâs mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he doesnât confess his sins double quick,â said the British captain. The Portuguese held 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, with all sail set, âTo the bottom of the sea, sea, seaâ where…â
âOh, gracious! What shall I say?â cried Sallie, as Fred ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and facts out of one of his favorite books. âWell, they went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved 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 curious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, âIâll give you a box of pearls if you can take it up,â for she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldnât 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…â
âLittle goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,â said Amy, when Sallieâs invention gave out. âThe little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. âYour geese will tell you, they know everything.â said the old woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed…â
ââCabbages!ââ continued Laurie promptly. ââJust the thing,â 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 Iâm interested went back to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and 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 his affections picking flowers in her garden. âWill you give me a rose?â said he. âYou must come and get it. I canât come to you, it isnât proper,â said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher 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, âLet me in! Let me in!â 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, Frank will tell you.â
âI canât. Iâm not playing, I never do,â said Frank, dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.
âSo the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?â asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in his buttonhole.
âI guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a while,â said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor.
âWhat a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do something quite clever. Do you know Truth?â
âI hope so,â said Meg soberly.
âThe game, I mean?â
âWhat is it?â said Fred.
âWhy, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question put by the rest. Itâs great fun.â
âLetâs try it,â said Jo, who liked new experiments.
Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo, and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie.
âWho are your heroes?â asked Jo.
âGrandfather and Napoleon.â
âWhich lady here do you think prettiest?â said Sallie.
âMargaret.â
âWhich do you like best?â from Fred.
âJo, of course.â
âWhat silly questions you ask!â And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the rest laughed at Laurieâs matter-of-fact tone.
âTry again. Truth isnât a bad game,â said Fred.
âItâs a very good one for you,â retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn came next.
âWhat is your greatest fault?â asked Fred, by way of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself.
âA quick temper.â
âWhat do you most wish for?â said Laurie.
âA pair of boot lacings,â returned Jo, guessing and defeating his purpose.
âNot a true answer. You must say what you really do want most.â
âGenius. Donât you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?â And she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.
âWhat virtues do you most admire in a man?â asked Sallie.
âCourage and honesty.â
âNow my turn,â said Fred, as his hand came last.
âLetâs give it to him,â whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at once…
âDidnât you cheat at croquet?â
âWell, yes, a little bit.â
âGood! Didnât you take your story out of The Sea Lion?â said Laurie.
âRather.â
âDonât you think the English nation perfect in every respect?â asked Sallie.
âI should be ashamed of myself if I didnât.â
âHeâs a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance without waiting to draw. Iâll harrrow up your feelings first by asking if you donât think you are something of a flirt,â said Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.
âYou impertinent boy! Of course Iâm not,â exclaimed Sallie, with an air that proved the contrary.
âWhat do you hate most?â asked Fred.
âSpiders and rice pudding.â
âWhat do you like best?â asked Jo.
âDancing and French gloves.â
âWell, I think Truth is a very silly play. Letâs have a sensible game of Authors to refresh our minds,â proposed Jo.
Ned, Frank, and the little girls 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.
âHow beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw,â said Meg, with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
âWhy donât you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it,â replied Miss Kate graciously.
âI havenât time.â
âYour mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on. Canât you do the same with your governess?â
âI have none.â
âI forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I suppose?â
âI donât go at all. I am a governess myself.â
âOh, indeed!â said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, âDear me, how dreadful!â 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, âYoung ladies in America love independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and respected for supporting themselves.â
âOh, yes, of course itâs very nice and proper in them to do so. We have many most respectable and worthy 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,â said Miss Kate in a patronizing tone that hurt Megâs pride, and made her work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading.
âDid the German song suit, Miss March?â inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking an awkward pause.
âOh, yes! It was very sweet, and Iâm much obliged to whoever translated it for me.â And Megâs downcast face brightened as she spoke.
âDonât you read German?â asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.
âNot very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I donât get on very fast alone, for Iâve no one to correct my pronunciation.â
âTry a little now. Here is Schillerâs Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves to teach.â And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting smile.
âItâs so hard Iâm afraid to try,â said Meg, grateful, but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
âIâll read a bit to encourage you.â 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, âI thought it was poetry.â
âSome of it is. Try this passage.â
There was a queer smile about Mr. Brookeâs mouth as he opened at poor Maryâs lament.
Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point with, read slowly and timidly, 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 beauty 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.
âVery well indeed!â said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking 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 book, saying with condescension, âYouâve a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must look after Grace, she is romping.â And Miss Kate strolled away, adding to herself with a shrug, âI didnât come to chaperone a governess, though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. Iâm afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them.â
âI forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses and donât treat them as we do,â said Meg, looking after the retreating figure with an annoyed expression.
âTutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my sorrow. Thereâs no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret.â And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot.
âIâm glad I live in it then. I donât like my work, but I get a good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I wonât complain. I only wished I liked teaching as you do.â
âI think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry to lose him next year,â said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf.
âGoing to college, I suppose?â Megâs lips asked the question, but her eyes added, âAnd what becomes of you?â
âYes, itâs high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed.â
âI am glad of that!â exclaimed Meg. âI should think every young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who stay at home,â she added sorrowfully.
âI have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die,â 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.
âLaurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you,â said Meg heartily.
âThank you, that sounds pleasant,â began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.
âDonât you love to ride?â asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.
âI dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but we donât keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree,â added Amy, laughing.
âTell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?â asked Grace curiously.
âWhy, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but weâve 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.â
âHow funny!â laughed Grace. âI have a pony at home, and ride nearly every day in the park with Fred and Kate. Itâs very nice, for my friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen.â
âDear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but Iâd rather go to Rome than the Row,â said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what the Row was and wouldnât have asked for the world.
Frank, sitting just behind the 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 sorts of comical gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards, looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, âIâm afraid you are tired. Can I do anything for you?â
âTalk to me, please. Itâs dull, sitting by myself,â 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 Beth, 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.
âWhat do you like to talk about?â she asked, fumbling over the cards and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.
âWell, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,â said Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.
My heart! What shall I do? I donât know anything about them, thought Beth, and forgetting the boyâs misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk, âI never saw any hunting, but I suppose you know all about it.â
âI 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,â said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her innocent blunder.
âYour deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,â she said, turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one of the boysâ books in which Jo delighted.
Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her sistersâ surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged protection.
âBless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,â said Jo, beaming at her from the croquet ground.
âI always said she was a little saint,â added Meg, as if there could be no further doubt of it.
âI havenât heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,â said Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn cups.
âMy sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,â said Amy, well pleased at Bethâs success. She meant âfacinatingâ, but as Grace didnât know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded 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 packed, 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 have a heart,
Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?
he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed outright and spoiled his song.
âHow can you be so cruel to me?â he whispered, under cover of a lively chorus. âYouâve kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day, and now you snub me.â
âI didnât mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldnât help it,â replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and the talk after it.
Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her rather pettishly, âThere isnât a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?â
âNot a particle, but sheâs a dear,â returned Sallie, defending her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.
âSheâs not a stricken deer anyway,â 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-byes, 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 in her voice, âIn spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice when one knows them.â
âI quite agree with you,â said Mr. Brooke.
Chapter 13: Castles In The Air
Laurie lay luxuriously swinging 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 it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brookeâs patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practicing 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 words 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 quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself 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.
âWhat in the world are those girls about now?â thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take 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 shoulder, 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.
âWell, thatâs cool,â said Laurie to himself, âto have a picnic and never ask me! They canât be going in the boat, for they havenât got the key. Perhaps they forgot it. Iâll take it to them, and see whatâs going on.â
Though possessed of half a dozen 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 out of sight when he 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.
âHereâs a landscape!â 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 boyâs face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down 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.
âMay I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?â he asked, advancing slowly.
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at once, âOf course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldnât care for such a girlâs game as this.â
âI always like your games, but if Meg doesnât want me, Iâll go away.â
âIâve no objection, if you do something. Itâs against the rules to be idle here,â replied Meg gravely but graciously.
âMuch obliged. Iâll do anything if youâll let me stop a bit, for itâs as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. Iâm ready.â And Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.
âFinish this story while I set my heel,â said Jo, handing him the book.
âYesâm.â was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the âBusy Bee Societyâ.
The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
âPlease, maâam, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?â
âWould you tell him?â asked Meg of her sisters.
âHeâll laugh,â said Amy warningly.
âWho cares?â said Jo.
âI guess heâll like it,â added Beth.
âOf course I shall! I give you my word I wonât laugh. Tell away, Jo, and donât be afraid.â
âThe idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play Pilgrimâs Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer.â
âYes, I know,â said Laurie, nodding wisely.
âWho told you?â demanded Jo.
âSpirits.â
âNo, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so donât scold, Jo,â said Beth meekly.
âYou canât keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now.â
âGo on, please,â said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.
âOh, didnât she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, 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 are ever so glad that we didnât dawdle.â
âYes, I should think so,â and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days.
âMother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring our work here 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 away and see the country where we hope to live some time.â
Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose 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 light were silvery white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.
âHow beautiful that is!â said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.
âItâs often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid,â replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
âJo talks about the country where we hope to live sometimeâthe 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,â said Beth musingly.
âThere is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by-and-by, when we are good enough,â answered Meg with her sweetest voice.
âIt seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.â
âYouâll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,â said Jo. âIâm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all.â
âYouâll have me for company, if thatâs any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, youâll say a good word for me, wonât you, Beth?â
Something in the boyâs face troubled his little friend, but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, âIf people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in, for I donât believe there are any locks on that door or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.â
âWouldnât it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?â said Jo, after a little pause.
âIâve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which Iâd have,â said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.
âYouâd have to take your favorite one. What is it?â asked Meg.
âIf I tell mine, will you tell yours?â
âYes, if the girls will too.â
âWe will. Now, Laurie.â
âAfter Iâd seen as much of the world as I want to, Iâd like to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. Iâm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And Iâm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live for what I like. Thatâs my favorite castle. Whatâs yours, Meg?â
Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, âI should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious thingsânice 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 plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldnât be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly.â
âWouldnât you have a master for your castle in the air?â asked Laurie slyly.
âI said âpleasant peopleâ, you know,â and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
âWhy donât you say youâd have a splendid, wise, good husband and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldnât be perfect without,â said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.
âYouâd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,â answered Meg petulantly.
âWouldnât I though? Iâd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled high with books, and Iâd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurieâs music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that wonât be forgotten after Iâm dead. I donât know what, but Iâm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream.â
âMine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take care of the family,â said Beth contentedly.
âDonât you wish for anything else?â asked Laurie.
âSince I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else.â
âI 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,â was Amyâs modest desire.
âWeâre an ambitious set, arenât we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes,â said Laurie, chewing grass like a meditative calf.
âIâve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen,â observed Jo mysteriously.
âIâve got the key to mine, but Iâm not allowed to try it. Hang college!â muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.
âHereâs mine!â and Amy waved her pencil.
âI havenât got any,â said Meg forlornly.
âYes, you have,â said Laurie at once.
âWhere?â
âIn your face.â
âNonsense, thatâs of no use.â
âWait and see if it doesnât bring you something worth having,â 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.
âIf we are all alive ten years hence, letâs meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,â said Jo, always ready with a plan.
âBless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!â exclaimed Meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
âYou and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!â said Jo.
âI hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but Iâm such a lazy dog, Iâm afraid I shall dawdle, Jo.â
âYou need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure youâll work splendidly.â
âIs she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!â cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. âI ought to be satisfied to please Grandfather, and I do try, but itâs working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and Iâd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I donât 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 heâs set, and Iâve got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, Iâd do it tomorrow.â
Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young manâs hatred of subjection, a young manâs restless longing to try the world for himself.
âI advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way,â said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called âTeddyâs Wrongsâ.
âThatâs not right, Jo. You mustnât talk in that way, and Laurie mustnât take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy,â said Meg in her most maternal tone. âDo your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, Iâm sure he wonât be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and youâd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Donât be dismal or fret, but do your duty and youâll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved.â
âWhat do you know about him?â asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak.
âOnly what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldnât go abroad as tutor to some nice person because he wouldnât leave her. And how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be.â
âSo he is, dear old fellow!â said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. âItâs 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 couldnât understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what Iâll do for Brooke.â
âBegin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,â said Meg sharply.
âHow do you know I do, Miss?â
âI can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, heâs sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better.â
âWell, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brookeâs face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didnât know youâd got up a telegraph.â
âWe havenât. Donât be angry, and oh, donât tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know,â cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
âI donât tell tales,â replied Laurie, with his âhigh and mightyâ air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. âOnly if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report.â
âPlease donât be offended. I didnât mean to preach or tell tales or be silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which youâd 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.â And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.
Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, âIâm the one to be forgiven. Iâm cross and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so donât mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the same.â
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 âBusy Bee Societyâ. In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea âto drawâ, and they would just have time to get home to supper.
âMay I come again?â asked Laurie.
âYes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do,â said Meg, smiling.
âIâll try.â
âThen you may come, and Iâll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do. Thereâs a demand for socks just now,â added Jo, waving hers like a big blue worsted banner as they parted 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 with his gray head on his hand, thinking 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, âIâll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has.â
Chapter 14: Secrets
Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For 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, accompanied 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…
âThere, Iâve done my best! If this wonât suit I shall have to wait till I can do better.â
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 it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Joâs desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely 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, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.
She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the back entry window, got out upon the 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 passing 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, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked 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 gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave 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 dentistâs 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 the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, âItâs like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time sheâll need someone to help her home.â
In ten minutes Jo came running 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 gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, âDid you have a bad time?â
âNot very.â
âYou got through quickly.â
âYes, thank goodness!â
âWhy did you go alone?â
âDidnât want anyone to know.â
âYouâre the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?â
Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at something.
âThere are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week.â
âWhat are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,â said Laurie, looking mystified.
âSo are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?â
âBegging your pardon, maâam, it wasnât a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.â
âIâm glad of that.â
âWhy?â
âYou can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes, and weâll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.â
Laurie burst out with a hearty boyâs laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.
âIâll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not. Itâs grand fun and will straighten you up capitally. But I donât believe that was your only reason for saying âIâm gladâ in that decided way, was it now?â
âNo, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?â
âNot often.â
âI wish you wouldnât.â
âItâs no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but itâs no fun unless you have good players, so, as Iâm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.â
âOh, dear, Iâm so sorry, for youâll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope youâd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,â said Jo, shaking her head.
âCanât a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?â asked Laurie, looking nettled.
âThat depends upon how and where he takes it. I donât like Ned and his set, and wish youâd keep out of it. Mother wonât let us have him at our house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she wonât be willing to have us frolic together as we do now.â
âWonât she?â asked Laurie anxiously.
âNo, she canât bear fashionable young men, and sheâd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.â
âWell, she neednât get out her bandboxes yet. Iâm not a fashionable party and donât mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, donât you?â
âYes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but donât get wild, will you? Or there will be an end of all our good times.â
âIâll be a double distilled saint.â
âI canât bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and weâll never desert you. I donât know what I should do if you acted like Mr. Kingâs son. He had plenty of money, but didnât know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his fatherâs name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.â
âYou think Iâm likely to do the same? Much obliged.â
âNo, I donâtâoh, dear, no!âbut I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldnât worry then.â
âDo you worry about me, Jo?â
âA little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for youâve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, Iâm afraid it would be hard to stop you.â
Laurie walked in silence a few 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.
âAre you going to deliver lectures all the way home?â he asked presently.
âOf course not. Why?â
âBecause if you are, Iâll take a bus. If youâre not, Iâd like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting.â
âI wonât preach any more, and Iâd like to hear the news immensely.â
âVery well, then, come on. Itâs a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours.â
âI havenât got any,â began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
âYou know you haveâyou canât hide anything, so up and âfess, or I wonât tell,â cried Laurie.
âIs your secret a nice one?â
âOh, isnât it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and Iâve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin.â
âYouâll not say anything about it at home, will you?â
âNot a word.â
âAnd you wonât tease me in private?â
âI never tease.â
âYes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I donât know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.â
âThank you. Fire away.â
âWell, Iâve left two stories with a newspaperman, and heâs to give his answer next week,â whispered Jo, in her confidantâs ear.
âHurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!â 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.
âHush! It wonât come to anything, I dare say, but I couldnât rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didnât want anyone else to be disappointed.â
âIt wonât fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Wonât it be fun to see them in print, and shanât we feel proud of our authoress?â
Joâs eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friendâs praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
âWhereâs your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or Iâll never believe you again,â she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.
âI may get into a scrape for telling, but I didnât promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till Iâve told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Megâs glove is.â
âIs that all?â said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
âItâs quite enough for the present, as youâll agree when I tell you where it is.â
âTell, then.â
Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Joâs 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, âHow do you know?â
âSaw it.â
âWhere?â
âPocket.â
âAll this time?â
âYes, isnât that romantic?â
âNo, itâs horrid.â
âDonât you like it?â
âOf course I donât. Itâs ridiculous, it wonât be allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?â
âYou are not to tell anyone. Mind that.â
âI didnât promise.â
âThat was understood, and I trusted you.â
âWell, I wonât for the present, anyway, but Iâm disgusted, and wish you hadnât told me.â
âI thought youâd be pleased.â
âAt the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.â
âYouâll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.â
âIâd like to see anyone try it,â cried Jo fiercely.
âSo should I!â and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
âI donât think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that,â said Jo rather ungratefully.
âRace down this hill with me, and youâll be all right,â suggested Laurie.
No one was in sight, the smooth 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 success of his treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
âI 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 itâs made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are,â said Jo, dropping 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.
âWhat in the world are you doing here?â she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.
âGetting leaves,â meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.
âAnd hairpins,â added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Joâs lap. âThey grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats.â
âYou have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such romping ways?â said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
âNever till Iâm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Donât try to make me grow up before my time, Meg. Itâs hard enough to have you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can.â
As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurieâs secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew Megâs attention from it by asking quickly, âWhere have you been calling, all so fine?â
âAt the Gardinersâ, and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffatâs wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!â
âDo you envy her, Meg?â said Laurie.
âIâm afraid I do.â
âIâm glad of it!â muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
âWhy?â asked Meg, looking surprised.
âBecause if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man,â said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.
âI shall never âgo and marryâ anyone,â observed Meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and âbehaving like childrenâ, as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behaved 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 âSpread Eaglesâ 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 garden and finally capturing her in Amyâs bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.
âWhat shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady,â sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
âI hope she wonât. She is so funny and dear as she is,â said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Joâs having secrets with anyone but her.
âItâs very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo,â added Amy, who sat making some new frills 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.
âHave you anything interesting there?â asked Meg, with condescension.
âNothing but a story, wonât amount to much, I guess,â returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
âYouâd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief,â said Amy in her most grown-up tone.
âWhatâs the name?â asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet.
âThe Rival Painters.â
âThat sounds well. Read it,â said Meg.
With a loud âHem!â 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. âI like that about the splendid picture,â was Amyâs approving remark, as Jo paused.
âI prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isnât that queer?â said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical.
âWho wrote it?â asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Joâs 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, âYour sister.â
âYou?â cried Meg, dropping her work.
âItâs very good,â said Amy critically.
âI knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!â and Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.
Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldnât believe it till she saw the words. âMiss Josephine March,â actually printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldnât be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, âSakes alive, well I never!â in great astonishment at âthat Joâs doinâsâ. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how the âSpread Eagleâ might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand.
âTell us about it.â âWhen did it come?â âHow much did you get for it?â âWhat will Father say?â âWonât Laurie laugh?â cried the family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy.
âStop jabbering, girls, and Iâll tell you everything,â said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did over her âRival Paintersâ. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, âAnd when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didnât pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when 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, and heâs 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.â
Joâs breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural 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.
Chapter 15: A Telegram
âNovember is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,â said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden.
âThatâs the reason I was born in it,â observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
âIf something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month,â said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November.
âI dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,â said Meg, who was out of sorts. âWe go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill.â
âMy patience, how blue we are!â cried Jo. âI donât much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, donât I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines! Youâre pretty enough and good enough already, so Iâd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly. Then youâd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of splendor and elegance.â
âPeople donât have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have to work and women marry for money. Itâs a dreadfully unjust world,â said Meg bitterly.
âJo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years, and see if we donât,â said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.
âCanât wait, and Iâm afraid I havenât much faith in ink and dirt, though Iâm grateful for your good intentions.â
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, âTwo 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.â
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, âAny letter from Father, girls?â and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, âWonât some of you come for a drive? Iâve been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and Iâm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. Itâs a dull day, but the air isnât bad, and Iâm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isnât out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, wonât you?â
âOf course we will.â
âMuch obliged, but Iâm busy.â 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.
âWe three will be ready in a minute,â cried Amy, running away to wash her hands.
âCan I do anything for you, Madam Mother?â asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. Marchâs chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her.
âNo, thank you, except call at the office, if youâll be so kind, dear. Itâs our day for a letter, and the postman hasnât been. Father is as regular as the sun, but thereâs some delay on the way, perhaps.â
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter.
âItâs one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,â she said, handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
At the word âtelegraphâ, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her 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 read 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 they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly 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 forgot, âI shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear it!â
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 afflictions.
âThe Lord keep the dear man! I wonât waste no time a-cryinâ, but git your things ready right away, mum,â 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.
âSheâs right, thereâs no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me think.â
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.
âWhereâs Laurie?â she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.
âHere, maâam. Oh, let me do something!â cried the boy, hurrying from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
âSend a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. Iâll take that.â
âWhat else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,â he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
âLeave a note at Aunt Marchâs. Jo, give me that pen and paper.â
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 a little to the sum for her father.
âNow go, dear, but donât kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. There is no need of that.â
Mrs. Marchâs 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.
âJo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I canât come. On the way get these things. Iâll put them down, theyâll 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 old wine. Iâm 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 Iâm half bewildered.â
Writing, thinking, and directing 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 scattered 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 back 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 motherâs absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didnât offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentlemanâs undertaking the long journey, 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 heâd 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 Mr. Brooke.
âIâm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,â he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. âI 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.â
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.
âHow kind you all are! Mother will accept, Iâm sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!â
Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot 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 would call her mother.
Everything was arranged by the 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 always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there.
The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a âslap and a bangâ, 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 countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, âThatâs my contribution toward making Father comfortable and bringing him home!â
âMy dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you havenât done anything rash?â
âNo, itâs mine honestly. I didnât beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I donât think youâll blame me, for I only sold what was my own.â
As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
âYour hair! Your beautiful hair!â âOh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.â âMy dear girl, there was no need of this.â âShe doesnât look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!â
As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, âIt doesnât affect the fate of the nation, so donât wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. Iâm satisfied, so please take the money and letâs have supper.â
âTell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I canât blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and Iâm afraid you will regret it one of these days,â said Mrs. March.
âNo, I wonât!â returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned.
âWhat made you do it?â asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
âWell, I was wild to do something for Father,â replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. âI 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.â
âYou neednât feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got the simplest with your own hard earnings,â said Mrs. March with a look that warmed Joâs heart.
âI hadnât the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if Iâd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barberâs 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.â
âI donât see how you dared to do it,â said Beth in a tone of awe.
âOh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasnât used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didnât care about mine, it wasnât the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasnât done right away that I shouldnât 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 got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, âTake it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady. Iâd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.â
âWho was Jimmy?â asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along.
âHer son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, donât they? She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.â
âDidnât you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?â asked Meg, with a shiver.
âI took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, 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 Iâd an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. Iâll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I donât think I shall ever have a mane again.â
Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said, âThank you, deary,â but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brookeâs kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed when at ten oâclock Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, âCome girls.â Beth went to the piano and played the fatherâs 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.
âGo to bed and donât talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,â 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 and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek…
âJo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?â
âNo, not now.â
âWhat then?â
âMy… My hair!â burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow.
It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
âIâm not sorry,â protested Jo, with a choke. âIâd do it again tomorrow, if I could. Itâs only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Donât tell anyone, itâs all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?â
âI canât sleep, Iâm so anxious,â said Meg.
âThink about something pleasant, and youâll soon drop off.â
âI tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.â
âWhat did you think of?â
âHandsome facesâeyes particularly,â answered Meg, smiling to herself in the dark.
âWhat color do you like best?â
âBrown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely.â
Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell 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 face, 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 dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, âBe comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds.â
Chapter 16: Letters
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 cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannahâs familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Motherâs cloak and bonnet 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 keep their resolution. Megâs eyes kept filling in spite of herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them.
Nobody talked much, but as the 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, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag…
âChildren, I leave you to Hannahâs care and Mr. Laurenceâs 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. Donât 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 and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless.â
âYes, Mother.â
âMeg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, donât get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready 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.â
âWe will, Mother! We will!â
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 came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him âMr. Greatheartâ on the spot.
âGood-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!â 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 good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing 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.
âHow kind everyone is to us!â she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young manâs face.
âI donât see how they can help it,â 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.
âI feel as if there had been an earthquake,â said Jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
âIt seems as if half the house was gone,â added Meg forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Motherâs table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, 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.
âNow, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and donât fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then letâs fall to work and be a credit to the family.â
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.
ââHope and keep busyâ, thatâs the motto for us, so letâs see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, wonât she lecture though!â said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
âI shall go to my Kings, though Iâd much rather stay at home and attend to things here,â said Meg, wishing she hadnât made her eyes so red.
âNo need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,â put in Amy, with an important air.
âHannah will tell us what to do, and weâll have everything nice when you come home,â added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay.
âI think anxiety is very interesting,â observed Amy, eating sugar pensively.
The girls couldnât help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl.
The sight of the turnovers made 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 motherâs face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.
âThatâs so like my Beth!â said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. âGoodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings wonât strain today. Donât fret about Father, dear,â she added, as they parted.
âAnd I hope Aunt March wonât croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice,â returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sisterâs shoulders.
âThatâs my only comfort.â And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every 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 plump 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 couldnât help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurenceâs business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful 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 didnât know her âmoral fitâ wouldnât 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 piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and 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 big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes 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, âIâm glad! Iâm glad!â Didnât 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 everyone is so desperately good, itâs like living in a nest of turtledoves. Youâd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and Iâm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and Iâwell, Iâm Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that 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 didnât speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldnât come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldnât and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, itâs hard to beg pardon. But I thought heâd come to it, for I was in the right. He didnât come, and just at night I remembered 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 otherâs pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
I made a âpomeâ yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and 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 sing,
While the white foam rises high,
And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry.
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they.
Then on the earth there would be indeed,
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life,
Will heartâs-ease ever bloom.
The busy 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 given,
To labor at day by day,
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,
âHead, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
But, Hand, you shall work alway!â
Dear Mother,
There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Fatherâs tune. I canât sing âLAND OF THE LEALâ 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 didnât forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving…
LITTLE BETH
Ma Chere Mamma,
We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girlsâMeg 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 French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Canât she? Didnât 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 canât stop. Adieu, I send 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 going 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 donât stop to calâkâlate fust, and you never know where sheâs like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched âem afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should 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 help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur. I donât let the girls 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 and 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 sends 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 time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope heâs seen the last of his Pewmonia.
Yours respectful,
Hannah Mullet
Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,
All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by…
COLONEL TEDDY
Dear Madam:
The little girls are all well. 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 draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Donât let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.
Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE
Chapter 17: Little Faithful
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved 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 didnât like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse 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 sistersâ 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 felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
All were unconscious that this 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 mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
âMeg, I wish youâd go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not to forget them.â said Beth, ten days after Mrs. Marchâs departure.
âIâm too tired to go this afternoon,â replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed.
âCanât you, Jo?â asked Beth.
âToo stormy for me with my cold.â
âI thought it was almost well.â
âItâs well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummelsâ,â said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
âWhy donât you go yourself?â asked Meg.
âI have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I donât 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 think you or Hannah ought to go.â
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.
âAsk Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air will do you good,â said Jo, adding apologetically, âIâd go but I want to finish my writing.â
âMy head aches and Iâm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,â said Beth.
âAmy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,â suggested Meg.
So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went to her room to try on a new 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 heavy 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 motherâs room. Half an hour after, Jo went to âMotherâs closetâ for something, and there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.
âChristopher Columbus! Whatâs the matter?â cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .
âYouâve had the scarlet fever, havenât you?â
âYears ago, when Meg did. Why?â
âThen Iâll tell you. Oh, Jo, the babyâs dead!â
âWhat baby?â
âMrs. Hummelâs. It died in my lap before she got home,â cried Beth with a sob.
âMy poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,â said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her motherâs big chair, with a remorseful face.
âIt wasnât 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 tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didnât stir, and I knew it was dead.â
âDonât cry, dear! What did you do?â
âI just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore throats. âScarlet fever, maâam. Ought to have called me before,â 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 round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or Iâd have the fever.â
âNo, you wonât!â cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. âOh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What shall we do?â
âDonât be frightened, I guess I shanât have it badly. I looked in Motherâs book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better,â said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and trying to look well.
âIf Mother was only at home!â exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, âYouâve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it, so Iâm afraid you are going to have it, Beth. Iâll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.â
âDonât let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Canât you and Meg have it over again?â asked Beth, anxiously.
âI guess not. Donât care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!â 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 worry; every one had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.
âNow Iâll tell you what weâll do,â said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth, âwe will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right. Then weâll send Amy off to Aunt Marchâs for a spell, to keep her out of harmâs way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.â
âI shall stay, of course, Iâm oldest,â began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful.
âI shall, because itâs my fault she is sick. I told Mother Iâd do the errands, and I havenât,â said Jo decidedly.
âWhich will you have, Beth? There ainât no need of but one,â aid Hannah.
âJo, please.â And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a contented look, which effectually settled that point.
âIâll go and tell Amy,â said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.
Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, 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 parlor 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 thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, âNow be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, donât cry, but hear what a jolly plan Iâve got. You go to Aunt Marchâs, and Iâll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and weâll have capital times. Wonât that be better than moping here?â
âI donât wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,â began Amy, in an injured voice.
âBless your heart, child, itâs to keep you well. You donât want to be sick, do you?â
âNo, Iâm sure I donât, but I dare say I shall be, for Iâve been with Beth all the time.â
âThatâs 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 the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.â
âBut itâs dull at Aunt Marchâs, and she is so cross,â said Amy, looking rather frightened.
âIt wonât be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and Iâll be as sweet as possible to her, so she wonât peck at us, whatever we do.â
âWill you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?â
âOn my honor as a gentleman.â
âAnd come every single day?â
âSee if I donât!â
âAnd bring me back the minute Beth is well?â
âThe identical minute.â
âAnd go to the theater, truly?â
âA dozen theaters, if we may.â
âWellâI guess I will,â said Amy slowly.
âGood girl! Call Meg, and tell her youâll give in,â said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the âgiving inâ.
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
âHow is the little dear?â asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
âShe is lying down on Motherâs bed, and feels better. The babyâs death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,â answered Meg.
âWhat a trying world it is!â said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful way. âNo sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesnât seem to be anything to hold on to when Motherâs gone, so Iâm all at sea.â
âWell, donât make a porcupine of yourself, it isnât becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do anything?â asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friendâs one beauty.
âThat is what troubles me,â said Meg. âI think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustnât, for Mother canât leave Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth wonât be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesnât seem quite right to me.â
âHum, well, I canât say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor has been.â
âWe will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,â commanded Meg. âWe canât decide anything till he has been.â
âStay where you are, Jo. Iâm errand boy to this establishment,â said Laurie, taking up his cap.
âIâm afraid you are busy,â began Meg.
âNo, Iâve done my lessons for the day.â
âDo you study in vacation time?â asked Jo.
âI follow the good example my neighbors set me,â was Laurieâs answer, as he swung himself out of the room.
âI have great hopes for my boy,â observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile.
âHe does very well, for a boy,â was Megâs 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 provided 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.
âWhat do you want now?â she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out…
âGo away. No boys allowed here.â
Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.
âNo more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isnât sick, which Iâve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Donât cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff.â
Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrotâs tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out, âBless my boots!â in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
âWhat do you hear from your mother?â asked the old lady gruffly.
âFather is much better,â replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
âOh, is he? Well, that wonât last long, I fancy. March never had any stamina,â was the cheerful reply.
âHa, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!â squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old ladyâs cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.
âHold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, youâd better go at once. It isnât proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated boy like…â
âHold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!â cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the ârattlepatedâ boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
âI donât think I can bear it, but Iâll try,â thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March.
âGet along, you fright!â screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.
Chapter 18: Dark Days
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 Hannah 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 wrote letters in which no mention was made of Bethâs illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldnât hear of âMrs. March beinâ told, and worried just for sech a trifle.â
Jo devoted herself to Beth day 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 allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she âwould think of it, though there was no danger yetâ. 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 the 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 buyâin love, protection, 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 the sweetness of Bethâs nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Bethâs unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, 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 the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because 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 her 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 write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that Father 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 Bethâs 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 looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, âIf Mrs. March can leave her husband sheâd better be sent for.â
Hannah nodded without speaking, 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 cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read 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, âWhat is it? Is Beth worse?â
âIâve sent for Mother,â said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression.
âGood for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?â asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.
âNo. The doctor told us to.â
âOh, Jo, itâs not so bad as that?â cried Laurie, with a startled face.
âYes, it is. She doesnât know us, she doesnât even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She doesnât look like my Beth, and thereâs nobody to help us bear it. Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I canât find Him.â
As the tears streamed fast down poor Joâs cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, âIâm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!â
She could not speak, but she did âhold onâ, 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 uphold her in her trouble.
Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing 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.
âThank you, Teddy, Iâm better now. I donât feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes.â
âKeep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be all right.â
âIâm so glad Father is better. Now she wonât feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders,â sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.
âDoesnât Meg pull fair?â asked Laurie, looking indignant.
âOh, yes, she tries to, but she canât love Bethy as I do, and she wonât miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I canât give her up. I canât! I canât!â
Down went Joâs 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 couldnât help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Joâs sobs quieted, he said hopefully, âI donât think she will die. Sheâs so good, and we all love her so much, I donât believe God will take her away yet.â
âThe good and dear people always do die,â groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friendâs words cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears.
âPoor girl, youâre worn out. It isnât like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit. Iâll hearten you up in a jiffy.â
Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Bethâs 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, âI drinkâ Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?â she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.
âIâll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight Iâll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine,â said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something.
âWhat is it?â cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
âI telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered sheâd come at once, and sheâll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Arenât you glad I did it?â
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 throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, âOh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!â She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.
Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, âOh, donât! I didnât mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldnât help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and donât give me wine again, it makes me act so.â
âI donât mind,â laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. âWhy, you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. Sheâd never forgive us if Beth… Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be âlorded overâ, 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 youâve only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here.â
âLaurie, youâre an angel! How shall I ever thank you?â
âFly at me again. I rather liked it,â said Laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
âNo, thank you. Iâll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Donât tease, but go home and rest, for youâll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!â
Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was âhappy, oh, so happy!â while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it.
âThatâs the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away,â 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 âknocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpectedâ. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Bethâs bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amyâs bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, âMotherâs coming, dear! Motherâs coming!â Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, âWater!â 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 raged, 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 doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bedâs foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. Marchâs countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into 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 dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.
âIf God spares Beth, I never will complain again,â whispered Meg earnestly.
âIf God spares Beth, Iâll try to love and serve Him all my life,â answered Jo, with equal fervor.
âI wish I had no heart, it aches so,â sighed Meg, after a pause.
âIf life is often as hard as this, I donât see how we ever shall get through it,â added her sister despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurieâs quiet departure for the station. Another 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 sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their motherâs easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, âBeth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.â
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 looked 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, âGood-by, my Beth. Good-by!â
As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried 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, âThe feverâs turned, sheâs sleepinâ natâral, her skinâs damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!â
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, âYes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her…â
What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts 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 gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
âIf Mother would only come now!â said Jo, as the winter night began to wane.
âSee,â said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, âI thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Bethâs hand tomorrow if sheâwent away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and Motherâs face.â
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 looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
âIt looks like a fairy world,â said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
âHark!â cried Jo, starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurieâs voice saying in a joyful whisper, âGirls, sheâs come! Sheâs come!â
Chapter 19: Amyâs Will
While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt Marchâs. 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 nephewâs children, though she didnât think it proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with childrenâs little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile 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 taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amyâs soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.
She had to wash the cups every 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 Marchâs eye, and all the furniture had claw legs 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 didnât she enjoy it?
Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked 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 worst 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 bed, 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 Laurie, 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 him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair 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 something 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 âMadameâ, as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her. Her 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, and amused her very much with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madameâs laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests, for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amyâs 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 loverâs diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, Uncle Marchâs big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box all by itself lay Aunt Marchâs wedding ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of them all.
âWhich would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?â asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
âI like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and Iâm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I might,â replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
âI, 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,â said Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.
âIs it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?â asked Amy.
âTruly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou.â
âYou seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could.â
âIf Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort, but as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day 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.â
âWould it be right for me to do so too?â 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 was not there to remind her of it.
âIt 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.â
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an affectionate heart, and felt much 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.
âI wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies,â she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the jewel cases one by one.
âTo you and your sisters. I know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed her will, and it is to be so,â whispered Esther smiling.
âHow nice! But I wish sheâd let us have them now. Procrastination is not agreeable,â observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
âIt 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 ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners.â
âDo you think so? Oh, Iâll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! Itâs ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryantâs. I do like Aunt March after all.â And Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one 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 Amyâs beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking 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 âsit aloneâ thinking 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 and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sincere 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 motherâs help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, 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 ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old ladyâs 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 amuse 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 Esther 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 stately curtsies, and sweeping her train about with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurieâs ring nor see his face peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, âAinât we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! Ha!â
Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.
âSit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to consult you about a very serious matter,â said Amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. âThat bird is the trial of my life,â she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride a chair.
âYesterday, when Aunt was asleep 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 it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, âCome out and take a walk, my dear.â I couldnât help laughing, which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.â
âDid the spider accept the old fellowâs invitation?â asked Laurie, yawning.
âYes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on Auntâs chair, calling out, âCatch her! Catch her! Catch her!â as I chased the spider.â
âThatâs a lie! Oh, lor!â cried the parrot, pecking at Laurieâs toes.
âIâd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,â cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely croaked, âAllyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!â
âNow Iâm ready,â said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of paper out of her pocket. âI want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I donât want any ill feeling over my tomb.â
Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:
MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT
I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, go give and bequeethe all my earthly propertyâviz. to wit:ânamely
To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pocketsâalso my likeness, and my medal, with much 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 memorial of her âlittle girlâ.
To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstandâshe lost the coverâand 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 Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadnât 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 âwill remember me, when it you seeâ.
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. Amen.
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 properly.
âWhat put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Bethâs giving away her things?â asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
She explained and then asked anxiously, âWhat about Beth?â
âIâm sorry I spoke, but as I did, Iâll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry 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.â
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amyâs face was full of trouble, but she only said, âDonât people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?â
âYes, âcodicilsâ, they call them.â
âPut one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will spoil my looks.â
Laurie added it, smiling at Amyâs 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, âIs there really any danger about Beth?â
âIâm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so donât cry, dear.â 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 streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.
Chapter 20: Confidential
I donât think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard 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 Megâs tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Motherâs face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about 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 âdished upâ an 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 young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Fatherâs state, Mr. Brookeâs promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurieâs 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 their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Bethâs side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and 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 âsniffedâ herself, and never once said âI told you soâ. Amy came out so strong 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 Laurieâs opinion, that she behaved âlike a capital little womanâ. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed her buttons, and begged her to âcome and take a walk, dearâ, in his most 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 manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she returned, 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 benignity.
After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till night, and Iâm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amyâs cry of joy at sight of her mother. 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 motherâs lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation 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 explained to her.
âOn the contrary, I like it very much, dear,â looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. âIt 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.â
âYes, 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 Iâve tried to make. The womanâs face is not good, itâs too beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I donât seem so far away, and that helps me.â
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Motherâs knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minuteâs pause, she added gravely, âI wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today. She called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and sheâd like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as itâs too big. Iâd like to wear them Mother, can I?â
âThey are very pretty, but I think youâre rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,â said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.
âIâll try not to be vain,â said Amy. âI donât think I like it only because itâs so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something.â
âDo you mean Aunt March?â asked her mother, laughing.
âNo, to remind me not to be selfish.â Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan.
âIâve thought a great deal lately about my âbundle of naughtiesâ, and being selfish is the largest one in it, so Iâm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isnât selfish, and thatâs the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldnât feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I donât deserve to have them, but Iâd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so Iâm going to try and be like Beth all I can. Iâm 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?â
âYes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again.â
That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the travelerâs safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Bethâs 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.
âWhat is it, deary?â asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence.
âI want to tell you something, Mother.â
âAbout Meg?â
âHow quickly you guessed! Yes, itâs about her, and though itâs a little thing, it fidgets me.â
âBeth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasnât been here, I hope?â asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
âNo. I should have shut the door in his face if he had,â said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her motherâs feet. âLast summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurencesâ and only one was returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didnât dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isnât it a dreadful state of things?â
âDo you think Meg cares for him?â asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look.
âMercy me! I donât know anything about love and such nonsense!â cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. âIn 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 doesnât mind me as he ought.â
âThen you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?â
âWho?â cried Jo, staring.
âMr. Brooke. I call him âJohnâ now. We fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.â
âOh, dear! I know youâll take his part. Heâs been good to Father, and you wonât send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him.â And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
âMy dear, donât get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurenceâs request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldnât 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 marry 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 could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent to Megâs engaging herself so young.â
âOf course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I felt it, and now itâs worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family.â
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, âJo, I confide in you and donât wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him.â
âSheâll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. Sheâs got such a soft heart, it will melt like 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 doesnât think John an ugly name, and sheâll go and fall in love, and thereâs an end of peace and fun, and cozy times together. I see it all! Theyâll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge. 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 werenât we all boys, then there wouldnât be any bother.â
Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief.
âYou donât like it, Mother? Iâm glad of it. Letâs send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been.â
âI did wrong to sigh, Jo. 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 happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself 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 have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her.â
âHadnât you rather have her marry a rich man?â asked Jo, as her motherâs voice faltered a little over the last words.
âMoney is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. Iâm 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 should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily 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 manâs heart, and that is better than a fortune.â
âI understand, Mother, and quite agree, but Iâm disappointed about Meg, for Iâd planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldnât it be nice?â asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face.
âHe is younger than she, you know,â began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in…
âOnly a little, heâs old for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then heâs rich and generous and good, and loves us all, and I say itâs a pity my plan is spoiled.â
âIâm afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Donât make plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We canât meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get âromantic rubbishâ as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship.â
âWell, I wonât, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here 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, moreâs the pity!â
âWhatâs that about flatirons and cats?â asked Meg, as she crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand.
âOnly one of my stupid speeches. Iâm going to bed. Come, Peggy,â said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
âQuite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John,â said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.
âDo you call him âJohnâ?â asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her motherâs.
âYes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,â replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
âIâm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,â was Megâs 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, âShe does not love John yet, but will soon learn to.â
Chapter 21: Laurie Makes Mischief, And Jo Makes Peace
Joâs face was a study next day, 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 make 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. She 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 and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March 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 find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didnât 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 tutorâs 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 fatherâs return, 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, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her motherâs inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Joâs she silenced by begging to be let alone.
âShe feels it in the airâlove, I meanâand sheâs going very fast. Sheâs got most of the symptomsâis twittery and cross, doesnât eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said âJohnâ, as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?â said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.
âNothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Fatherâs coming will settle everything,â replied her mother.
âHereâs a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine,â 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 staring at her note with a frightened face.
âMy child, what is it?â cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
âItâs all a mistake, he didnât send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?â and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite broken.
âMe! Iâve done nothing! Whatâs she talking about?â cried Jo, bewildered.
Megâs mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, âYou wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?â
Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.
âMy Dearest Margaret,
âI can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your parents 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,
âYour devoted John.â
âOh, the little villain! Thatâs the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to Mother. Iâll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over to beg pardon,â cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore…
âStop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.â
âOn my word, Mother, I havenât! I never saw that note before, and donât know anything about it, as true as I live!â said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. âIf I had taken part in it Iâd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think youâd have known Mr. Brooke wouldnât write such stuff as that,â she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
âItâs like his writing,â faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.
âOh, Meg, you didnât answer it?â cried Mrs. March quickly.
âYes, I did!â and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
âHereâs a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and be lectured. I canât rest till I get hold of him.â And Jo made for the door again.
âHush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,â commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.
âI received the first letter from Laurie, who didnât look as if he knew anything about it,â began Meg, without looking up. âI was worried at first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldnât mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. Iâm so silly that I liked to think 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, Iâm paid for my silliness now. I never can look him in the face again.â
âWhat did you say to him?â asked Mrs. March.
âI only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didnât 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.â
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, âYou are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?â
âHe writes in a different 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. Itâs very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!â
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly, âI donât believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because I wouldnât tell him my secret.â
âDonât have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble, as I should have done,â said Meg warningly.
âBless you, child! Mother told me.â
âThat will do, Jo. Iâll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once.â
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brookeâs real feelings. âNow, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?â
âIâve been so scared and worried, I donât want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never,â answered Meg petulantly. âIf John doesnât know anything about this nonsense, donât tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I wonât be deceived and plagued and made a fool of. Itâs a shame!â
Seeing Megâs 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 future. The instant Laurieâs step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldnât come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. Marchâs face, and stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march 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 interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie 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 humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.
âIâll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shanât drag it out of me, so youâll forgive me, Meg, and Iâll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am,â he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
âIâll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didnât think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,â replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
âIt was altogether abominable, and I donât deserve to be spoken to for a month, but you will, though, wonât you?â And Laurie folded his hands together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him in spite of his scandalous behavior.
Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. Marchâs 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 upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.
âIs Mr. Laurence in?â asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs.
âYes, Miss, but I donât believe heâs seeable just yet.â
âWhy not? Is he ill?â
âLa, no Miss, but heâs had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursnât go nigh him.â
âWhere is Laurie?â
âShut up in his room, and he wonât answer, though Iâve been a-tapping. I donât know whatâs to become of the dinner, for itâs ready, and thereâs no one to eat it.â
âIâll go and see what the matter is. Iâm not afraid of either of them.â
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurieâs little study.
âStop that, or Iâll open the door and make you!â 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 manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, âPlease forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and canât go away till I have.â
âItâs all right. Get up, and donât be a goose, Jo,â was the cavalier reply to her petition.
âThank you, I will. Could I ask whatâs the matter? You donât look exactly easy in your mind.â
âIâve been shaken, and I wonât bear it!â growled Laurie indignantly.
âWho did it?â demanded Jo.
âGrandfather. If it had been anyone else Iâd have…â And the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
âThatâs nothing. I often shake you, and you donât mind,â said Jo soothingly.
âPooh! Youâre a girl, and itâs fun, but Iâll allow no man to shake me!â
âI donât think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?â
âJust because I wouldnât say what your mother wanted me for. Iâd promised not to tell, and of course I wasnât going to break my word.â
âCouldnât you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?â
âNo, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Iâd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldnât, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget myself.â
âIt wasnât nice, but heâs sorry, I know, so go down and make up. Iâll help you.â
âHanged if I do! Iâm 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 wonât do it again, when I wasnât in the wrong.â
âHe didnât know that.â
âHe ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. Itâs no use, Jo, heâs got to learn that Iâm able to take care of myself, and donât need anyoneâs apron string to hold on by.â
âWhat pepper pots you are!â sighed Jo. âHow do you mean to settle this affair?â
âWell, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I canât tell him what the fussâs about.â
âBless you! He wonât do that.â
âI wonât go down till he does.â
âNow, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and Iâll explain what I can. You canât stay here, so whatâs the use of being melodramatic?â
âI donât intend to stay here long, anyway. Iâll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me heâll come round fast enough.â
âI dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him.â
âDonât preach. Iâll go to Washington and see Brooke. Itâs gay there, and Iâll enjoy myself after the troubles.â
âWhat fun youâd have! I wish I could run off too,â said Jo, forgetting her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
âCome on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and Iâll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Letâs do it, Jo. Weâll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. Iâve got money enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your father.â
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. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
âIf I was a boy, weâd run away together, and have a capital time, but as Iâm a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Donât tempt me, Teddy, itâs a crazy plan.â
âThatâs the fun of it,â began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
âHold your tongue!â cried Jo, covering her ears. ââPrunes and prismsâ are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of.â
âI know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit,â began Laurie insinuatingly.
âBad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, donât go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?â asked Jo seriously.
âYes, but you wonât do it,â answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
âIf I can manage the young one, I can the old one,â muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head propped up on both hands.
âCome in!â and Mr. Laurenceâs gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.
âItâs only me, Sir, come to return a book,â she said blandly, as she entered.
âWant any more?â asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.
âYes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think Iâll try the second volume,â returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswellâs 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 literature 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 brewing 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 the floor.
âWhat has that boy been about? Donât try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I canât 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.â
âHe did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to anyone,â began Jo reluctantly.
âThat wonât do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you softhearted girls. If heâs done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I wonât be kept in the dark.â
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming 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 path, so she had to stay and brave it out.
âIndeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We donât keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please donât. It was partly my fault, but itâs all right now. So letâs forget it, and talk about the Rambler or something pleasant.â
âHang the Rambler! Come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasnât done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, Iâll thrash him with my own hands.â
The threat sounded awful, but 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 betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.
âHum… ha… well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, Iâll forgive him. Heâs a stubborn fellow and hard to manage,â said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
âSo am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the kingâs horses and all the kingâs men couldnât,â said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
âYou think Iâm not kind to him, hey?â was the sharp answer.
âOh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Donât you think you are?â
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, âYouâre right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how it will end, if we go on so.â
âIâll tell you, heâll run away.â 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 more forebearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurenceâs ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurieâs father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old manâs will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
âHe wonât 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.â
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke.
âYou hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Whereâs your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are, yet we canât do without them,â he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly. âGo and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him itâs all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather. I wonât bear it.â
âHe wonât come, Sir. He feels badly because you didnât believe him when he said he couldnât tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much.â
Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
âIâm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?â and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
âIf I were you, Iâd write him an apology, Sir. He says he wonât 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 fun, and this way is better than talking. Iâll carry it up, and teach him his duty.â
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, âYouâre a sly puss, but I donât mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense.â
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurenceâs bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurieâs door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, 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, âWhat a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?â he added, laughing.
âNo, he was pretty mild, on the whole.â
âAh! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce,â he began apologetically.
âDonât talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son.â
âI keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end,â he said dolefully.
âGo and eat your dinner, youâll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry,â and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.
âThatâs a âlabelâ on my âsectâ,â answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful 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, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her sisterâs desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, âMrs. John Brookeâ, whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurieâs prank had hastened the evil day for her.
Chapter 22: Pleasant Meadows
Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of 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 dollâs sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for âthe dearâ, while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated 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 were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah âfelt in her bonesâ 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, then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her motherâs gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window 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 fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rainbow 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 Bess!
May nothing you dismay,
But health and peace and happiness
Be yours, this Christmas day.
Hereâs fruit to feed our busy bee,
And flowers for her nose.
Hereâs music for her pianee,
An afghan for her toes,
A portrait of Joanna, see,
By Raphael No. 2,
Who laboured with great industry
To make it fair and true.
Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
For Madam Purrerâs tail,
And ice cream made by lovely Peg,
A Mont Blanc 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.
âIâm so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldnât hold one drop more,â said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the âJungfrauâ had sent her.
âSo am I,â added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Undine and Sintram.
âIâm sure I am,â echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.
âOf course I am!â cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. âHow can I be otherwise?â said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husbandâs letter to Bethâs smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast.
Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only 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 excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, âHereâs another Christmas present for the March family.â
Before the words were well out 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 tried to say something and couldnât. 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 word.
Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed 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 cried over her fatherâs boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, âHush! Remember Beth.â
But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her fatherâs arms. Never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, 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 behind 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 longed to surprise them, and how, when 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 glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldnât 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 herself as she slammed the door, âI hate estimable young men with brown eyes!â
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in oneâs mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, âFor my mind was that flustered, Mum, that itâs a merrycle I didnât roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilinâ of it in a cloth.â
Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurieâs 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, âreminiscedâ, as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
âJust a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?â asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.
âRather a pleasant year on the whole!â said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
âI think itâs been a pretty hard one,â observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.
âIâm glad itâs over, because weâve got you back,â whispered Beth, who sat on her fatherâs knee.
âRather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,â said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.
âHow do you know? Did Mother tell you?â asked Jo.
âNot much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and Iâve made several discoveries today.â
âOh, tell us what they are!â cried Meg, who sat beside him.
âHere is one.â 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 spots on the palm. âI 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 Iâm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. Iâm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away.â
If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her fatherâs hand and the approving smile he gave her.
âWhat about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to me,â said Beth in her fatherâs ear.
He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her face.
âIn spite of the curly crop, I donât see the âson Joâ whom I left a year ago,â said Mr. March. âI see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, 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 doesnât 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 her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I donât know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldnât find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent me.â
Joâs keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her fatherâs praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
âNow, Beth,â said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
âThereâs so little of her, Iâm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,â began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, âIâve got you safe, my Beth, and Iâll keep you so, please God.â
After a minuteâs silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair…
âI observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on every one 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 has 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 figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others.â
âWhat are you thinking of, Beth?â asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring.
âI read in Pilgrimâs Progress today how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journeyâs end,â answered Beth, adding, as she slipped out of her fatherâs arms and went to the instrument, âItâs singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. Iâll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for Father, because he likes the verses.â
So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her.
He that is down need fear no fall,
He that is low no pride.
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,
Little be it, or much.
And, Lord! Contentment still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.
Fulness to them a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage.
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age!
Chapter 23: Aunt March Settles The Question
Like bees swarming after their 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 Bethâs sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then âto peek at the dear manâ, nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brookeâs umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when Johnâs name was mentioned. Amy said, âEveryone seemed waiting for something, and couldnât settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,â and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didnât run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the afternoon, 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 hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
âWhat does the goose mean?â said Meg, laughing and trying to look unconscious.
âHeâs showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isnât it?â answered Jo scornfully.
âDonât say my John, it isnât proper or true,â but Megâs voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. âPlease donât plague me, Jo, Iâve told you I donât care much about him, and there isnât to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before.â
âWe canât, for something has been said, and Laurieâs mischief has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I donât 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,â said Jo pettishly.
âI canât say anything till he speaks, and he wonât, because Father said I was too young,â began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point.
âIf he did speak, you wouldnât know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided no.â
âIâm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say, for Iâve planned it all, so I neednât be taken unawares. Thereâs no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared.â
Jo couldnât help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks.
âWould you mind telling me what youâd say?â asked Jo more respectfully.
âNot at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort.â
âDonât mean to have any. Itâs fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself,â said Jo, looking alarmed at the thought.
âI think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you.â Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
âI thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,â said Jo, rudely shortening her sisterâs little reverie.
âOh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, âThank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.ââ
âHum, thatâs stiff and cool enough! I donât believe youâll ever say it, and I know he wonât be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, youâll give in, rather than hurt his feelings.â
âNo, I wonât. I shall tell him Iâve made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity.â
Meg rose as she spoke, and was 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.
âGood afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today,â said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.
âItâs very well, heâs in the rack. Iâll get him, and tell it you are here.â And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room 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…
âMother will like to see you. Pray sit down, Iâll call her.â
âDonât go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?â and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must 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 surprised 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…
âHow can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it.â
âShall I tell you how?â asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
âOh no, please donât, Iâd rather not,â she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
âI wonât trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear,â added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didnât make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, âI donât know,â so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, âWill you try and find out? I want to know so much, for I canât go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not.â
âIâm too young,â faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
âIâll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?â
âNot if I chose to learn it, but. . .â
âPlease choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German,â broke in John, 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 merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffatâs foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best 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, âI donât choose. Please go away and let me be!â
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.
âDo you really mean that?â he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.
âYes, I do. I donât want to be worried about such things. Father says I neednât, itâs too soon and Iâd rather not.â
âMaynât I hope youâll change your mind by-and-by? Iâll wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Donât play with me, Meg. I didnât think that of you.â
âDonât think of me at all. Iâd rather you wouldnât,â said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her loverâs patience and her own power.
He was grave and pale now, and 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 spite of herself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
The old lady couldnât resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. Marchâs 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, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
âBless me, whatâs all this?â cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.
âItâs Fatherâs friend. Iâm so surprised to see you!â stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
âThatâs evident,â returned Aunt March, sitting down. âBut what is Fatherâs friend saying to make you look like a peony? Thereâs mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,â with another rap.
âWe were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,â began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.
âBrooke? That boyâs tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Fatherâs letters, and I made her tell me. You havenât gone and accepted him, child?â cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
âHush! Heâll hear. Shanât I call Mother?â said Meg, much troubled.
âNot yet. Iâve something 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,â said the old lady impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared she couldnât think of it, but as she 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 being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit.
âI shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to anyone you like,â she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.
âHighty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? Youâll be sorry for it by-and-by, when youâve tried love in a cottage and found it a failure.â
âIt canât be a worse one than some people find in big houses,â 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, âNow, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and donât want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. Itâs your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you.â
âFather and Mother donât think so. They like John though he is poor.â
âYour parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies.â
âIâm glad of it,â cried Meg stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. âThis Rook is poor and hasnât got any rich relations, has he?â
âNo, but he has many warm friends.â
âYou canât live on friends, try it and see how cool theyâll grow. He hasnât any business, has he?â
âNot yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him.â
âThat wonât 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 working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg.â
âI couldnât do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise, heâs got heaps of talent, heâs willing to work and sure to get on, heâs so energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and Iâm proud to think he cares for me, though Iâm so poor and young and silly,â said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
âHe knows you have got rich relations, child. Thatâs the secret of his liking, I suspect.â
âAunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I wonât listen to you a minute if you talk so,â cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old ladyâs suspicions. âMy John wouldnât marry for money, any more than I would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. Iâm not afraid of being poor, for Iâve been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him because he loves me, and I…â
Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadnât made up her mind, that she had told âher Johnâ to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girlâs happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
âWell, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child, and youâve lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I wonât stop. Iâm disappointed in you, and havenât spirits to see your father now. Donât expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr. Brookeâs friends must take care of you. Iâm done with you forever.â
And slamming the door in Megâs face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girlâs courage with her, for when left 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, âI couldnât help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little bit.â
âI didnât know how much till she abused you,â began Meg.
âAnd I neednât go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?â
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself forever in Joâs eyes by meekly whispering, âYes, John,â and hiding her face on Mr. Brookeâs waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt Marchâs departure, Jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, âShe has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is settled. Iâll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it.â
But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over 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 his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort 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, but âthat manâ, as Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, âSister Jo, congratulate us!â
That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, âOh, do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!â
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously 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 comfort from them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went on 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 pleaded 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 proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadnât the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by Johnâs devotion and Megâs dignity, Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as âunworldly as a pair of babiesâ. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there.
âYou canât say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?â said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she was planning to make.
âNo, Iâm sure I canât. How much has happened since I said that! It seems a year ago,â answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.
âThe joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun,â said Mrs. March. âIn most families there comes, now and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it ends well, after all.â
âHope the next will end better,â 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 dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way.
âI hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I live to work out my plans,â said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now.
âDoesnât it seem very long to wait?â asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding.
âIâve got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me,â answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen there before.
âYou have only to wait, I am to do the work,â said John beginning his labors by picking up Megâs 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, âHere comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible conversation.â
But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for âMrs. John Brookeâ, and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
âI knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, itâs done though the sky falls,â said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations.
âMuch obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot,â answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.
âIâll come if Iâm at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Joâs face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You donât look festive, maâam, whatâs the matter?â asked Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.
âI donât approve of the match, but Iâve made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it,â said Jo solemnly. âYou canât know how hard it is for me to give up Meg,â she continued with a little quiver in her voice.
âYou donât give her up. You only go halves,â said Laurie consolingly.
âIt can never be the same again. Iâve lost my dearest friend,â sighed Jo.
âYouâve got me, anyhow. Iâm not good for much, I know, but Iâll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!â and Laurie meant what he said.
âI know you will, and Iâm ever so much obliged. You are always a great comfort to me, Teddy,â returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
âWell, now, donât be dismal, thereâs a good fellow. Itâs 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. Weâll have capital times after she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then weâll go abroad on some nice trip or other. Wouldnât that console you?â
âI rather think it would, but thereâs no knowing what may happen in three years,â said Jo thoughtfully.
âThatâs true. Donât you wish you could take a look forward and see where we shall all be then? I do,â returned Laurie.
âI think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so happy now, I donât believe they could be much improved.â And Joâs eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.
Father and Mother sat together, 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.
Chapter 24: Gossip
In order that we may start afresh and go to Megâs wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much âloveringâ in the story, as I fear they may (Iâm not afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, âWhat can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?â
The three years that have passed 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 wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind âbrotherâ, the piety that blossoms into character, 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 herbs draw bees, and as naturally he 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 heart as they; thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told 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 beautiful and true, although âthey wouldnât payâ.
To outsiders the five energetic 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 motherâs keeping, their souls into their fatherâs, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses 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 Megâs affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded âboysâ and soldiersâ widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionaryâs visits.
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, but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very 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. Laurenceâs more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, 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 housewifely 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 couldnât help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with 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 beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallieâs 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 the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake 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 meantime 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 busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyoneâs friend, and an angel in the house, 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 ârubbishâ, 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 place the name of March upon the roll of fame.
Laurie, having dutifully gone 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 loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts.
Being only âa glorious human boyâ, of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather prided 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 âmen of my classâ, were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of âour fellowsâ, and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles 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 lords 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 found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, 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 Amyâs shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the âDovecoteâ.
That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for Megâs first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who âwent on together like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a cooâ. 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, and 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 where seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit, and the kitchen 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 blemishes and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided 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 flowers 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 donât think the Parian Psyche 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 Amyâs artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her mother put away Megâs few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new kitchen never could 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 âMis. Brooke came homeâ. 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 things done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, 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 Laurieâs ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces 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 skin off oneâs hands, infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.
In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him âMr. Toodlesâ. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week beheld some fresh absurdity.
Everything was done at last, even to Amyâs arranging different colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Bethâs setting the table for the first meal.
âAre you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?â 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.
âYes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I canât talk about it,â with a look that was far better than words.
âIf she only had a servant or two it would be all right,â said Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.
âMother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so little 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,â answered Meg tranquilly.
âSallie Moffat has four,â began Amy.
âIf Meg had four, the house wouldnât hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the garden,â broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.
âSallie isnât a poor manâs wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one. Itâs a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. 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.â
âWhy didnât you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants laugh at her,â said Meg.
âI did after a while, not to âmessâ 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 truly 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 wishes to be well and honestly served.â
âYes, Mother, Iâm sure of that,â said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all absorbing subject of house keeping. âDo you know I like this room most of all in my baby house,â added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.
Beth was there, laying the snowy 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 âthat Brookeâ she shouldnât 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 broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florenceâs mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table 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 tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride.
âThatâs a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for company and that satisfied her,â said Mrs. March, patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.
âI havenât a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me all my days, Hannah says.â And Meg looked quite contented, as well she might.
A tall, broad-shouldered young 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 and a hearty…
âHere I am, Mother! Yes, itâs all right.â
The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.
âFor Mrs. John Brooke, with the makerâs congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady.â
As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Bethâs hair ribbon, stared at Joâs big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to talk.
âWhere is John?â asked Meg anxiously.
âStopped to get the license for tomorrow, maâam.â
âWhich side won the last match, Teddy?â inquired Jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
âOurs, of course. Wish youâd been there to see.â
âHow is the lovely Miss Randal?â asked Amy with a significant smile.
âMore cruel than ever. Donât you see how Iâm pining away?â and Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.
âWhatâs the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg,â said Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.
âItâs a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,â observed Laurie, as a watchmanâs rattle appeared, amid the laughter of the girls.
âAny 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, isnât it?â and Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.
âThereâs gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she hadnât defended it manfully Iâd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a remarkably plummy one.â
âI wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie,â said Meg in a matronly tone.
âIâm doing my best, maâam, but canât get much higher, Iâm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,â responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.
âI suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as Iâm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment,â he added presently.
âMother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to settle,â said Meg, bustling away.
âBeth and I are going over to Kitty Bryantâs to get more flowers for tomorrow,â added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
âCome, Jo, donât desert a fellow. Iâm in such a state of exhaustion I canât get home without help. Donât take off your apron, whatever you do, itâs peculiarly becoming,â said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his feeble steps.
âNow, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,â began Jo, as they strolled away together. âYou must promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans.â
âNot a prank.â
âAnd donât say funny things when we ought to be sober.â
âI never do. You are the one for that.â
âAnd I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall certainly laugh if you do.â
âYou wonât see me, youâll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect.â
âI never cry unless for some great affliction.â
âSuch as fellows going to college, hey?â cut in Laurie, with suggestive laugh.
âDonât be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company.â
âExactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?â
âVery. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how heâll take it?â asked Jo rather sharply.
âNow, Jo, do you think Iâd look your mother in the face and say âAll rightâ, if it wasnât?â and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.
âNo, I donât.â
âThen donât go and be suspicious. I only want some money,â said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
âYou spend a great deal, Teddy.â
âBless you, I donât spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone before I know it.â
âYou are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and canât say âNoâ 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,â said Jo warmly.
âOh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldnât have me let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?â
âOf course not, but I donât see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought youâd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now itâs the fashion to be hideous, to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness, Iâd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I donât get any satisfaction out of it.â
Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked 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 stuffed it into his pocket.
âDonât lecture any more, thereâs a good soul! I have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. Iâll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends.â
âIâll leave you in peace if youâll only let your hair grow. Iâm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like a young prize fighter,â observed Jo severely.
âThis unassuming style promotes study, thatâs why we adopt it,â returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-inch-long stubble.
âBy 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. Heâd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadnât he?â added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone, after a minuteâs silence.
âOf course he had. We donât want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?â and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their teens.
âItâs a fast age, and I donât know what we are coming to, maâam. You are a mere infant, but youâll go next, Jo, and weâll be left lamenting,â said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.
âDonât be alarmed. Iâm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and itâs a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a family.â
âYou wonât give anyone a chance,â said Laurie, with a sidelong glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. âYou wonât show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident and canât help showing 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.â
âI donât like that sort of thing. Iâm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think itâs dreadful to break up families so. Now donât say any more about it. Megâs wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I donât wish to get cross, so letâs change the subject;â and Jo looked quite ready 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, âMark my words, Jo, youâll go next.â
Chapter 25: The First Wedding
The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts 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, whispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, 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 garden, 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 who had loved and tended them so long.
Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have. âI donât want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self.â
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 wore were the lilies of the valley, which âher Johnâ liked best of all the flowers that grew.
âYou do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldnât crumple your dress,â cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done.
âThen I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and donât mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today,â and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old.
âNow Iâm going to tie Johnâs cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in the study,â and Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the 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.
Joâs angles are much softened, 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 tall figure. There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only 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 shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully of âbeing better soonâ.
Amy is with truth considered âthe flower of the familyâ, 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. Amyâs 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 abundant 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 ceremonious 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 upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.
âUpon my word, hereâs a state of things!â cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle. âYou oughtnât to be seen till the last minute, child.â
âIâm not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. Iâm too happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and Iâm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, hereâs your hammer.â And away went Meg to help âthat manâ in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didnât even say, âThank you,â 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, âJupiter Ammon! Joâs upset the cake again!â caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and âthe party came inâ, as Beth used to say when a child.
âDonât let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes,â whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and Laurieâs black head towered above the rest.
âHe has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes,â returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple took 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 seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroomâs hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husbandâs eyes, and said, âI will!â with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her motherâs heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.
Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness 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 motherâs 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 wasnât at all the thing, Iâm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, âThe first kiss for Marmee!â and turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked more 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, âBless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ainât hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely.â
Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, 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 coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.
âHas Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?â he whispered, âor am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this morning?â
âNo, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched the rest to the Soldierâs Home. You know he thinks that wine should 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.â
Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way, âI like that! For Iâve seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do.â
âYou are not made wise by experience, I hope?â and there was an anxious accent in Megâs voice.
âNo. I give you my word for it. Donât 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 donât care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesnât like to refuse, you see.â
âBut 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.â
A demand so sudden and so serious 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 friendâs good. She did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, âNo one can refuse me anything today.â
Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, âI promise, Mrs. Brooke!â
âI thank you, very, very much.â
âAnd I drink âlong life to your resolutionâ, Teddy,â cried Jo, 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 instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life.
After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding.
âAll 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!â cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that 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, after a momentâs 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 chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dance 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.
âI wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think youâll be sorry for it,â said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, âYouâve got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it.â
âThat is the prettiest wedding Iâve been to for an age, Ned, and I donât see why, for there wasnât a bit of style about it,â observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.
âLaurie, 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,â said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning.
âIâll do my best to gratify you, Sir,â was Laurieâs unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned 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 dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say âgood-byâ, as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.
âDonât feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving John so much,â she said, clinging to her mother, with full eyes for a moment. âI 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 for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by!â
They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husbandâs arm, with her hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy faceâand so Megâs married life began.
Chapter 26: Artistic Attempts
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 âmud-pieâ business, and she 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 wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming 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. Raphaelâs 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 natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing 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 agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness 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 wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailorâs shirt or a kingâs 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 Amyâs hair, Joâs nose, Megâs mouth, and Laurieâs eyes were pronounced âwonderfully fineâ. A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto peopleâs 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 day 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, which 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, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book âa delicious bitâ, composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or âa heavenly mass of cloudsâ, 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 âpoints of sightâ, or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.
If âgenius is eternal patienceâ, 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 âhigh artâ.
She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends 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 liked 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, âIf Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, sheâd know exactly what to do.â
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in âour best societyâ, without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant 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 admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her.
âMy lady,â 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 felt in spite of external drawbacks.
âI want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,â Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.
âWell, little girl, what is it?â replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained âthe babyâ.
âOur drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference.â
âWhy should they?â and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her âMaria Theresa airâ.
âYou know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so donât ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know.â and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked, âWell, my swan, what is your plan?â
âI should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them.â
âThat looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?â
âOh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living.â
âHow many young ladies are there?â asked her mother, beginning to look sober.
âTwelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they wonât all come.â
âBless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about.â
âWhy, Mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurenceâs cherry-bounce.â (Hannahâs pronunciation of char-a-banc.)
âAll of this will be expensive, Amy.â
âNot very. Iâve calculated the cost, and Iâll pay for it myself.â
âDonât 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 change if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we donât need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?â
âIf I canât have it as I like, I donât care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little, and I donât see why I canât if Iâm willing to pay for it,â said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experience 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.
âVery well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, Iâll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, Iâll do my best to help you.â
âThanks, Mother, you are always so kind.â and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once, and promised 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 first.
âWhy in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who donât 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,â said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
âI donât truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!â returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. âThe girls do care for me, and I for them, and thereâs a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You donât care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and 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. Thatâs not my way.â
When Amy had whetted her tongue 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 hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amyâs definition of Joâs idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as âa nonsensical businessâ.
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 weekâs work was deranged, and prophesied that âef the washinâ and ironinâ warnât done regâlar, nothinâ would go well anywheresâ. This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amyâs motto was âNil desperandumâ, and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannahâs cooking didnât turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and the chocolate wouldnât 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 outset, 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 such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an 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 didnât 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 what 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, and 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 able to help Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and 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 âcherry bounceâ and the broken bridge were her strong points.
Then came the hours of suspense, 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 came, 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.
âNo doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them,â 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.
âI canât get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today,â said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.
âUse the chicken then, the toughness wonât matter in a salad,â advised his wife.
âHannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. Iâm very sorry, Amy,â added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats.
âThen I must have a lobster, for tongue alone wonât do,â said Amy decidedly.
âShall I rush into town and demand one?â asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr.
âYouâd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to try me. Iâll go myself,â answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire 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 observe a newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, âGood morning, Miss March,â and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurieâs most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself that she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young manâs greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently, for Amyâs 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 the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, andâoh horror!âthe lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor!
âBy Jove, sheâs forgotten her dinner!â cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
âPlease donâtâitâsâitâs mine,â murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.
âOh, really, I beg pardon. Itâs an uncommonly fine one, isnât it?â said Tudor, with great presence 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, âDonât you wish you were to have some of the salad heâs going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?â
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 about âthe charming young ladiesâ diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
âI suppose heâll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shanât see them, thatâs a comfort,â thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting 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 before, and at twelve oâclock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterdayâs failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the âcherry bounceâ, and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
âThereâs the rumble, theyâre coming! Iâll 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,â said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.
âRun, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,â 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 entirely 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 âthe party went outâ.
As she came walking in, looking 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 Joâs mouth.
âYouâve had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear,â said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
âMiss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought,â observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
âCould you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I canât make such delicious stuff as yours,â asked Meg soberly.
âTake it all. Iâm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before I can dispose of it,â answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
âItâs a pity Laurie isnât here to help us,â began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, âsalad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn…â Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the âhistory of saladsâ, to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
âBundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like messes. Iâm sick of the sight of this, and thereâs no reason you should all die of a surfeit because Iâve been a fool,â cried Amy, wiping her eyes.
âI 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 receive the throng,â sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.
âIâm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,â said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
âI am satisfied. Iâve done what I undertook, and itâs not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,â said Amy with a little quiver in her voice. âI thank you all very much for helping me, and Iâll thank you still more if you wonât allude to it for a month, at least.â
No one did for several months, but the word âfeteâ always produced a general smile, and Laurieâs birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.
Chapter 27: Literary Lessons
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 shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and âfall into a vortexâ, 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 âscribbling suitâ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, âDoes genius burn, Jo?â 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 drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily 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 led 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 the 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 divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her âvortexâ, hungry, 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 Peopleâs 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 great 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 price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Womenâs 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 old 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, and 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, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, âwant to read it? Thatâs a first-rate story.â
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 when the authorâs invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
âPrime, isnât it?â asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
âI think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,â returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
âI should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories, they say.â and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
âDo you know her?â asked Jo, with sudden interest.
âNo, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed.â
âDo you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?â and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.
âGuess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it.â
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 boldly 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 âgenius took to burningâ. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for The Spread Eagle. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in Lisbon, 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 didnât 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, 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 pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story.
A prouder young woman was seldom 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 had 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…
âYou can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money.â
âI think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?â asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.
âSend Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,â answered Jo promptly.
To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didnât come home as plump and rosy as could 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 fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her ârubbishâ turned into comforts for them all. The Dukeâs Daughter paid the butcherâs bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the way 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, taking 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 her stories, but they found a market, 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.
âNow I must either bundle 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,â said Jo, calling a family council.
âDonât spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,â was her fatherâs advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.
âIt seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting,â said Mrs. March. âCriticism 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 blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money.â
âYes,â said Jo, knitting her brows, âthatâs just it. Iâve been fussing over the thing so long, I really donât know whether itâs good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it.â
âI wouldnât leave a word out of it. Youâll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you donât explain as you go on,â said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.
âBut Mr. Allen says, âLeave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the storyâ,â interrupted Jo, turning to the publisherâs note.
âDo as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we donât. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when youâve got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels,â said Amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.
âWell,â said Jo, laughing, âif my people are âphilosophical and metaphysicalâ, it isnât my fault, for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If Iâve got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?â
âI should so like to see it printed soon,â was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled Joâs heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture âsoonâ.
So, with Spartan firmness, the 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 everyoneâs 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 allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit 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 story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent 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 bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.
âYou said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when itâs so contradictory that I donât know whether Iâve written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?â cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. âThis man says, âAn exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.â âAll is sweet, pure, and healthy.ââ continued the perplexed authoress. âThe next, âThe theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.â Now, as I had no theory of any kind, donât believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I donât see how this critic can be right. Another says, âItâs one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.â (I know better than that), and the next asserts that âThough it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.â âTisnât! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish Iâd printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.â
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 criticism which is an authorâs 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 stronger for the buffeting she had received.
âNot being a genius, like Keats, it wonât kill me,â she said stoutly, âand Iâve got the joke 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 âcharmingly natural, tender, and trueâ. So Iâll comfort myself with that, and when Iâm ready, Iâll up again and take another.â
Chapter 28: Domestic Experiences
Like most other young matrons, 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 obstacles. 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 for 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 see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldnât live on love alone. John did not find Megâs 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 husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, âShall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?â 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 lasted she went through Mrs. Corneliusâs Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family 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 concealed 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 culinary 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 added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish 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 were to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that âmy wifeâ was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should 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 which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadnât she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and spent 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 undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldnât âjellâ.
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. 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 without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five oâclock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, âMy 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 discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.â
How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But, although they had had company from 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 vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder 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 that 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 that 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 satisfaction 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, and yesterdayâs 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 hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling 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.
âIâm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke,â 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 both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was 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 state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.
âMy dearest girl, what is the matter?â cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
âOh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! Iâve been at it till Iâm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!â 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 the same time as the floor.
âWhat worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?â asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew.
âYes,â sobbed Meg despairingly.
âTell me quick, then. Donât cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love.â
âThe… The jelly wonât jell and I donât know what to do!â
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 Megâs woe.
âIs that all? Fling it out of the window, and donât bother any more about it. Iâll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heavenâs sake donât have hysterics, for Iâve brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and…â
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…
âA man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?â
âHush, heâs in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it canât be helped now,â said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
âYou ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was,â continued Meg petulantly, for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
âI didnât 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!â added John, with an aggrieved air.
âI should hope not! Take him away at once. I canât see him, and there isnât any dinner.â
âWell, I like that! Whereâs the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised?â cried John, rushing to the larder.
âI hadnât time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Motherâs. Iâm sorry, but I was so busy,â and Megâs tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long dayâs work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
âItâs a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, weâll pull through and have a good time yet. Donât cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. Weâre both as hungry as hunters, so we shanât mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese. We wonât ask for jelly.â
He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
âYou must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. Iâm too used up to âexertâ myself for anyone. Itâs like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I wonât have anything of the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Motherâs, and tell him Iâm away, sick, dead, anything. I wonât see him, and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You wonât have anything else here.â and having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore 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 âup to Motherâsâ, and when Meg descended, after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten âa much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots.â
Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short-comings, of loyalty to John, âwho might be cruel, but nobody should know it,â 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 didnât come, not seeing the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with 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 come again, but John was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. âIt wasnât 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 wasnât! And Meg must know it.â
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. âPoor 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.â He hoped she had not gone homeâhe 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 his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be âcalm and kind, but firmâ, 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 leisure in her best parlor.
John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark, âWe are going to have a new moon, my dear.â
âIâve no objection,â was Megâs equally soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both looked quite âcalm and firmâ, and both felt desperately uncomfortable.
âOh, dear,â thought Meg, âmarried life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.â The word âMotherâ suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.
âJohn is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your 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 truthâa good trait, though you call him âfussyâ. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like oursâone flash and then all overâbut the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace 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.â
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, âI will be the first to say, âForgive meââ, but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across 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 couldnât do it, then came the thought, âThis is the beginning. Iâll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with,â and stooping down, 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…
âIt was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!â
But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar.
After this, Meg had Mr. Scott 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 head 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 âthat poor dearâ 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 Sallieâs pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldnât like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse.
She knew her husbandâs income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value moreâhis money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor manâs 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 Megâs paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didnât like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie neednât think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasnât 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 than 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 bills to her, the next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, 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 March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Yearâs. 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 said 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 household 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 folds, and said, âA bargain, I assure, you, maâam.â She answered, âIâll take it,â 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, feeling 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 looked less silvery now, didnât become her, after all, and the words âfifty dollarsâ 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 easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Megâs heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didnât 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 âbankâ, when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously…
âYou havenât seen my private expense book yet.â
John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement 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 composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be 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 pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word…
âJohn, dear, Iâm ashamed to show you my book, for Iâve really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Yearâs money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew youâd think it wrong in me.â
John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly, âDonât go and hide. I wonât beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots. Iâm rather proud of my wifeâs feet, and donât mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.â
That had been one of her last âtriflesâ, and Johnâs eye had fallen on it as he spoke. âOh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars!â thought Meg, with a shiver.
âItâs worse than boots, itâs a silk dress,â she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
âWell, dear, what is the âdemâd totalâ, as Mr. Mantalini says?â
That didnât 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 been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still, then John said slowlyâbut she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasureâ. . .
âWell, I donât know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.â
âIt isnât made or trimmed,â sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
âTwenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but Iâve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffatâs when she gets it on,â said John dryly.
âI know you are angry, John, but I canât help it. I donât mean to waste your money, and I didnât think those little things would count up so. I canât resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me because I donât. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and Iâm tired of being poor.â
The last words were spoken so low