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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
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Title: Little Women
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Author: Louisa May Alcott
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Posting Date: September 13, 2008 [EBook #514]
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Release Date: May, 1996
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[This file last updated on August 19, 2010]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE WOMEN ***
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LITTLE WOMEN
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by
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Louisa May Alcott
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CONTENTS
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PART 1
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ONE PLAYING PILGRIMS
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TWO A MERRY CHRISTMAS
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THREE THE LAURENCE BOY
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FOUR BURDENS
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FIVE BEING NEIGHBORLY
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SIX BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL
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SEVEN AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION
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EIGHT JO MEETS APOLLYON
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NINE MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR
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TEN THE P.C. AND P.O.
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ELEVEN EXPERIMENTS
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TWELVE CAMP LAURENCE
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THIRTEEN CASTLES IN THE AIR
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FOURTEEN SECRETS
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FIFTEEN A TELEGRAM
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SIXTEEN LETTERS
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SEVENTEEN LITTLE FAITHFUL
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EIGHTEEN DARK DAYS
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NINETEEN AMY'S WILL
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TWENTY CONFIDENTIAL
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TWENTY-ONE LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE
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TWENTY-TWO PLEASANT MEADOWS
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TWENTY-THREE AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION
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PART 2
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TWENTY-FOUR GOSSIP
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TWENTY-FIVE THE FIRST WEDDING
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TWENTY-SIX ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS
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TWENTY-SEVEN LITERARY LESSONS
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TWENTY-EIGHT DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
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TWENTY-NINE CALLS
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THIRTY CONSEQUENCES
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THIRTY-ONE OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
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THIRTY-TWO TENDER TROUBLES
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THIRTY-THREE JO'S JOURNAL
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THIRTY-FOUR FRIEND
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THIRTY-FIVE HEARTACHE
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THIRTY-SIX BETH'S SECRET
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THIRTY-SEVEN NEW IMPRESSIONS
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THIRTY-EIGHT ON THE SHELF
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THIRTY-NINE LAZY LAURENCE
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FORTY THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
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FORTY-ONE LEARNING TO FORGET
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FORTY-TWO ALL ALONE
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FORTY-THREE SURPRISES
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FORTY-FOUR MY LORD AND LADY
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FORTY-FIVE DAISY AND DEMI
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FORTY-SIX UNDER THE UMBRELLA
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FORTY-SEVEN HARVEST TIME
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CHAPTER ONE
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PLAYING PILGRIMS
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"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying
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on the rug.
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"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
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dress.
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"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty
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things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an
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injured sniff.
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"We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth contentedly
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from her corner.
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The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
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cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got
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Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say
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"perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far
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away, where the fighting was.
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Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know
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the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was
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because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we
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ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in
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the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and
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ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't," and Meg shook her
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head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
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"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've
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each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving
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that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want
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to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I've wanted it so long," said
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Jo, who was a bookworm.
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"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh,
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which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.
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"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils; I really need
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them," said Amy decidedly.
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"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to
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give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little
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fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the
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heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
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"I know I do--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm
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longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone
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again.
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"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you
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like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps
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you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to
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fly out the window or cry?"
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"It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
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tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands
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get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her
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rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
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"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't
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have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you
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don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your
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father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."
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"If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa
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was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing.
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"I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's
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proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy,
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with dignity.
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"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money
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Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we'd
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be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.
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"You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the
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King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
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spite of their money."
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"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work,
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we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."
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"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at
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the long figure stretched on the rug.
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Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to
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whistle.
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"Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!"
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"That's why I do it."
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"I detest rude, unladylike girls!"
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"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
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"Birds in their little nests agree," sang Beth, the peacemaker, with
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such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
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"pecking" ended for that time.
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"Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
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lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off
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boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so
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much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up
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your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."
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"I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two
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tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
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a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss
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March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It's
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bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and
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manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And
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it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa. And
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I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!"
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And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like
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castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
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"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped. So you must try to be
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contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
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girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the
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dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its
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touch.
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"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular
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and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected
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little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and
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refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your
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absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang."
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"If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
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ready to share the lecture.
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"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one
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contradicted her, for the 'Mouse' was the pet of the family.
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As young readers like to know 'how people look', we will take this
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moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
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knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
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without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
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room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a
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good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
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chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
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pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.
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Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
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plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet
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mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
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Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she
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never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
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much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
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gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
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funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it
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was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders
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had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the
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uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
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woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her,
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was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
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manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom
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disturbed. Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the
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name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of
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her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
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Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own
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opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow
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hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying
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herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters
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of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
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The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
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of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a
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good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone
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brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the
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lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot
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how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the
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blaze.
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"They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair."
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"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.
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"No, I shall!" cried Amy.
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"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man
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of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for
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he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone."
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"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something
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for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."
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"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.
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Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the
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idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give
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her a nice pair of gloves."
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"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.
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"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.
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"I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost
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much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.
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"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.
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"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
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Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.
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"I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair
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with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
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presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
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dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,"
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said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same
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time.
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"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then
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surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so
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much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up
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and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.
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"I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for
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such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
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'dressing-up' frolics.
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"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
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with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
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actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the
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boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and
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do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."
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"I can't help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make
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myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down
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easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
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graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,"
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returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen
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because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain
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of the piece.
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"Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
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crying frantically, 'Roderigo! Save me! Save me!'" and away went Jo,
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with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
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Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and
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jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was
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more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish.
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Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let
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her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use! Do
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the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't
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blame me. Come on, Meg."
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Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech
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of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an
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awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird
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effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in
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agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!"
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"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
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rubbed his elbows.
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"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo.
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You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that
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her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
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"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think _The Witches Curse, an
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Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try
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_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do
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the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?" muttered
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Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous
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tragedian do.
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"No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the
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bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
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general burst of laughter.
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"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door,
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and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a
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'can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
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elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
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gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
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the world.
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"Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do,
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getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to
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dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look
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tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."
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While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things
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off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy
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to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The
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girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own
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way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs,
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dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth
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trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy
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gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.
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As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
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happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."
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A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth
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clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up
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her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!"
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"Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through
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the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving
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wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs.
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March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.
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"Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper
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over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her
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bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.
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Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
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over the delight to come, till the others were ready.
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"I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too
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old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg
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warmly.
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"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its name? Or a
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nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.
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"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
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bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.
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"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in
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her voice.
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"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his
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work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
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minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter."
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They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her
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feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on
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the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter
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should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those
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hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent
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home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the
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dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful,
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hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and
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military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow
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with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
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"Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them
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by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their
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affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see
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them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these
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hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to
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them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty
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faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves
|
|
so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and
|
|
prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came
|
|
to that part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the
|
|
end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she
|
|
hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish
|
|
girl! But I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in
|
|
me by-and-by."
|
|
|
|
"We all will," cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks and hate to
|
|
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman' and not be
|
|
rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere
|
|
else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much
|
|
harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.
|
|
|
|
Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and
|
|
began to knit with all her might, 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 Jo's words, by saying in her
|
|
cheery voice, "Do 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."
|
|
|
|
"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
|
|
passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were," said Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,"
|
|
said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
|
|
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
|
|
top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it
|
|
over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
|
|
at the mature age of twelve.
|
|
|
|
"We never are too old 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."
|
|
|
|
"Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
|
|
literal young lady.
|
|
|
|
"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather
|
|
think she hasn't got any," said her mother.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
|
|
pianos, and being afraid of people."
|
|
|
|
Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but
|
|
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.
|
|
|
|
"Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for
|
|
trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to
|
|
be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best."
|
|
|
|
"We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled
|
|
us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of
|
|
directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo,
|
|
delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull
|
|
task of doing her duty.
|
|
|
|
"Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your
|
|
guidebook," replied Mrs. 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 Jo's 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, 'ittle 'tar,
|
|
|
|
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 TWO
|
|
|
|
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
|
|
mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a
|
|
little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that
|
|
beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it
|
|
was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke
|
|
Meg with a "Merry Christmas," 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.
|
|
|
|
"Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her
|
|
to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants
|
|
us to read and love and mind 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."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with
|
|
the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
|
|
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her
|
|
sisters' example.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still
|
|
while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to
|
|
touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.
|
|
|
|
"Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for
|
|
their gifts, half an hour later.
|
|
|
|
"Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma
|
|
went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman
|
|
for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," 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.
|
|
|
|
"She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything
|
|
ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
|
|
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper
|
|
time. "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the
|
|
little flask did not appear.
|
|
|
|
"She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
|
|
it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take
|
|
the first stiffness off the new army slippers.
|
|
|
|
"How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed
|
|
them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly
|
|
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.
|
|
|
|
"Bless the child! She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M.
|
|
March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's
|
|
initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee,"
|
|
said Beth, looking troubled.
|
|
|
|
"It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for
|
|
no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,"
|
|
said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth.
|
|
|
|
"There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" 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.
|
|
|
|
"Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg,
|
|
surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so
|
|
early.
|
|
|
|
"Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time
|
|
came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I
|
|
gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any
|
|
more."
|
|
|
|
As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap
|
|
one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget
|
|
herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her 'a
|
|
trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to
|
|
ornament the stately bottle.
|
|
|
|
"You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about
|
|
being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the
|
|
minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now."
|
|
|
|
Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the
|
|
girls to the table, eager for breakfast.
|
|
|
|
"Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We
|
|
read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus.
|
|
|
|
"Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and
|
|
hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down.
|
|
Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn 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?"
|
|
|
|
They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a
|
|
minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm
|
|
so glad you came before we began!"
|
|
|
|
"May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked
|
|
Beth eagerly.
|
|
|
|
"I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving
|
|
up the article she most liked.
|
|
|
|
Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one
|
|
big plate.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You
|
|
shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and
|
|
milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman,
|
|
crying for joy.
|
|
|
|
"Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing.
|
|
|
|
In a few minutes it really 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.
|
|
|
|
"Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate
|
|
and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had
|
|
never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable,
|
|
especially Jo, who had been considered a 'Sancho' ever since she was
|
|
born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't 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.
|
|
|
|
"That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said
|
|
Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs
|
|
collecting clothes for the poor Hummels.
|
|
|
|
Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in
|
|
the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white
|
|
chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave
|
|
quite an elegant air to the table.
|
|
|
|
"She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for
|
|
Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to
|
|
the seat of honor.
|
|
|
|
Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted
|
|
escort with great dignity. Mrs. 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 Amy's
|
|
cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were
|
|
pronounced a perfect fit.
|
|
|
|
There was a good deal of 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 heart's
|
|
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 Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The
|
|
smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors
|
|
to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit
|
|
for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
|
|
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage
|
|
besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless
|
|
amusement, and employed many hours which 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.
|
|
|
|
"A gloomy wood," 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 Hugo's
|
|
voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were
|
|
very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for
|
|
breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he
|
|
stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding,
|
|
"What ho, minion! I need thee!"
|
|
|
|
Out came Meg, with gray 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 witch's 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
|
|
Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when "Alas!
|
|
Alas for Zara!" 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, "I told you so! I told
|
|
you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire,
|
|
rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...
|
|
|
|
"Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up,
|
|
banished him 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, "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I
|
|
shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something,
|
|
and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.
|
|
Ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, and Hagar puts back the
|
|
cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty
|
|
after a long warble, drinks it, loses his 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 villain's death. He was called before
|
|
the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose
|
|
singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the
|
|
performance put together.
|
|
|
|
Act fourth displayed the 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 won't 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 doesn't make them happy. The bag
|
|
is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage
|
|
till it is quite glorified with the 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 Pedro's
|
|
blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
|
|
|
|
Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the
|
|
cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and
|
|
extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
|
|
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
|
|
with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah
|
|
appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk
|
|
down to supper."
|
|
|
|
This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table,
|
|
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee
|
|
to get up a little treat for them, but 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.
|
|
|
|
"Is it fairies?" asked Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Santa Claus," said Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray
|
|
beard and white eyebrows.
|
|
|
|
"Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
|
|
sudden inspiration.
|
|
|
|
"All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.
|
|
|
|
"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing
|
|
into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
|
|
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago,
|
|
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
|
|
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
|
|
them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you
|
|
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
|
|
breakfast."
|
|
|
|
"That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow,
|
|
and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know
|
|
us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him
|
|
when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to
|
|
melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
|
|
asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says
|
|
he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps
|
|
his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor,
|
|
and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he
|
|
didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us
|
|
girls."
|
|
|
|
"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
|
|
fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on,
|
|
when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day,
|
|
for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no
|
|
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He
|
|
brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had
|
|
been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went
|
|
away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own."
|
|
|
|
"It's a mercy you didn't, Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
|
|
"But we'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll
|
|
help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?"
|
|
|
|
"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg
|
|
examined her flowers with great interest.
|
|
|
|
"They are lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
|
|
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
|
|
|
|
Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my
|
|
bunch to Father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as
|
|
we are."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THREE
|
|
|
|
THE LAURENCE BOY
|
|
|
|
"Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
|
|
|
|
"Here!" 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 Jo's 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 didn't 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.
|
|
|
|
"Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner
|
|
for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then
|
|
proceeding to read it with girlish delight.
|
|
|
|
"'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at
|
|
a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now
|
|
what shall we wear?"
|
|
|
|
"What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our
|
|
poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her
|
|
mouth full.
|
|
|
|
"If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm
|
|
eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait."
|
|
|
|
"I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
|
|
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
|
|
Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out."
|
|
|
|
"You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The
|
|
front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
|
|
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and
|
|
my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like."
|
|
|
|
"Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I
|
|
shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much
|
|
about dress.
|
|
|
|
"You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are
|
|
more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and
|
|
if you don't I should be so mortified."
|
|
|
|
"Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no
|
|
fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers."
|
|
|
|
"You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are
|
|
so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't
|
|
get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?"
|
|
|
|
"I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how
|
|
stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can
|
|
manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?"
|
|
|
|
"Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
|
|
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
|
|
|
|
"Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking
|
|
up her book.
|
|
|
|
"You may have it, you may! Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely.
|
|
Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher
|
|
Columbus!' will you?"
|
|
|
|
"Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim 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."
|
|
|
|
So Meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing
|
|
blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her
|
|
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
|
|
|
|
On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
|
|
played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the
|
|
all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'. Simple as the
|
|
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing
|
|
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the
|
|
house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to
|
|
pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
|
|
|
|
"Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed.
|
|
|
|
"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.
|
|
|
|
"What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy,
|
|
smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
|
|
|
|
"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little
|
|
ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.
|
|
|
|
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the
|
|
hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of
|
|
little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair,
|
|
oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on
|
|
her forehead.
|
|
|
|
"Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil
|
|
everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made
|
|
a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with
|
|
tears of regret.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends
|
|
come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
|
|
I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.
|
|
|
|
"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone,"
|
|
cried Meg petulantly.
|
|
|
|
"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out
|
|
again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
|
|
|
|
After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
|
|
united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her
|
|
dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in
|
|
silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin.
|
|
Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white
|
|
chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light
|
|
glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite
|
|
easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt
|
|
her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed
|
|
stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but,
|
|
dear me, let us be elegant or die.
|
|
|
|
"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
|
|
daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at
|
|
eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a
|
|
voice cried from a window...
|
|
|
|
"Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding
|
|
with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we
|
|
were all running away from an earthquake."
|
|
|
|
"It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real
|
|
lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied
|
|
Meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own.
|
|
|
|
"Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash
|
|
right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from
|
|
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink.
|
|
|
|
"I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just
|
|
remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch
|
|
and her head a hasty brush.
|
|
|
|
"No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is
|
|
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight,
|
|
and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to
|
|
anyone. It isn't the thing."
|
|
|
|
"How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music
|
|
gay?"
|
|
|
|
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 didn't care much for girls
|
|
or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the
|
|
wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half
|
|
a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the
|
|
room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the
|
|
joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows
|
|
went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to
|
|
her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left 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 'Laurence boy'.
|
|
|
|
"Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to
|
|
back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
|
|
|
|
But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
|
|
startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like."
|
|
|
|
"Shan't I disturb you?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt
|
|
rather strange at first, you know."
|
|
|
|
"So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."
|
|
|
|
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to
|
|
be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you
|
|
before. You live near us, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Next door." And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim
|
|
manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about
|
|
cricket when he brought the cat home.
|
|
|
|
That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her
|
|
heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas
|
|
present."
|
|
|
|
"Grandpa sent it."
|
|
|
|
"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"
|
|
|
|
"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober
|
|
while his black eyes shone with fun.
|
|
|
|
"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only
|
|
Jo," returned the young lady.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."
|
|
|
|
"Laurie Laurence, what an odd name."
|
|
|
|
"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called
|
|
me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."
|
|
|
|
"I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo
|
|
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?"
|
|
|
|
"I thrashed 'em."
|
|
|
|
"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it." And
|
|
Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
|
|
thought the name suited her.
|
|
|
|
"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is
|
|
lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on
|
|
people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and
|
|
let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"
|
|
|
|
"Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't
|
|
been into company enough yet to know how you do things here."
|
|
|
|
"Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear
|
|
people describe their travels."
|
|
|
|
Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but Jo's eager questions
|
|
soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay,
|
|
where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake,
|
|
and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their
|
|
teachers.
|
|
|
|
"Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?"
|
|
|
|
"We spent last winter there."
|
|
|
|
"Can you talk French?"
|
|
|
|
"We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay."
|
|
|
|
"Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."
|
|
|
|
"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?"
|
|
|
|
"How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, 'Who is the young lady
|
|
in the pretty slippers', didn't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Oui, mademoiselle."
|
|
|
|
"It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
|
|
pretty?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
|
|
quiet, and dances like a lady."
|
|
|
|
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. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore
|
|
off, for Jo's 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 'Laurence boy' 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.
|
|
|
|
"Curly 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?"
|
|
|
|
It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in
|
|
time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.
|
|
|
|
"I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at
|
|
your books, no, I mean studying hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful
|
|
'pegging' which had escaped her.
|
|
|
|
Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not
|
|
for a year or two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway."
|
|
|
|
"Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she
|
|
had imagined seventeen already.
|
|
|
|
"Sixteen, next month."
|
|
|
|
"How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it."
|
|
|
|
"I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the
|
|
way fellows do either, in this country."
|
|
|
|
"What do you like?"
|
|
|
|
"To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."
|
|
|
|
Jo wanted very much to ask 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, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't
|
|
you go and try it?"
|
|
|
|
"If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.
|
|
|
|
"I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and
|
|
looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
|
|
|
|
"Because, what?"
|
|
|
|
"You won't tell?"
|
|
|
|
"Never!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my
|
|
frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it
|
|
shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may
|
|
laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know."
|
|
|
|
But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the
|
|
expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind
|
|
that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there,
|
|
and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come."
|
|
|
|
Jo thanked him and gladly 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 students'
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a
|
|
sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm
|
|
ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.
|
|
|
|
"I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I
|
|
don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all
|
|
night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
|
|
|
|
"I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say
|
|
I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a
|
|
long way to the stable, and no one to send."
|
|
|
|
"I'll go."
|
|
|
|
"No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here,
|
|
for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll
|
|
rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."
|
|
|
|
"I'll ask Laurie. He will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
|
|
occurred to her.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put
|
|
these slippers with our things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as
|
|
supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes."
|
|
|
|
"They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather."
|
|
|
|
"No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't
|
|
stir."
|
|
|
|
So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away
|
|
to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet,
|
|
and opening the door of a room where old 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.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's
|
|
glove by scrubbing her gown with it.
|
|
|
|
"Can I help you?" said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a
|
|
full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
|
|
|
|
"I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone
|
|
shook me, and here I am in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing
|
|
dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
|
|
|
|
"Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it
|
|
to your sister?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it
|
|
myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."
|
|
|
|
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 'nice
|
|
boy'. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in
|
|
the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three 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.
|
|
|
|
"Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's
|
|
nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs
|
|
to put her things on.
|
|
|
|
Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till 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 grandfather's carriage, which had just
|
|
come for him, he said.
|
|
|
|
"It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved
|
|
but hesitating to accept the offer.
|
|
|
|
"I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all
|
|
on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."
|
|
|
|
That settled it, and telling him of Meg's 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.
|
|
|
|
"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
|
|
making herself comfortable.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy
|
|
to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does.
|
|
She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be
|
|
perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering
|
|
up at the thought.
|
|
|
|
"I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he
|
|
nice?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I
|
|
had a delicious redowa with him."
|
|
|
|
"He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie
|
|
and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?"
|
|
|
|
"No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden
|
|
away there?"
|
|
|
|
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...
|
|
|
|
"Tell about the party! Tell about the party!"
|
|
|
|
With what Meg called 'a great want of manners' Jo had saved some
|
|
bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the
|
|
most thrilling events of the evening.
|
|
|
|
"I 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," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed
|
|
her hair.
|
|
|
|
"I don't 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."
|
|
And I think Jo was quite right.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FOUR
|
|
|
|
BURDENS
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,"
|
|
sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over,
|
|
the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the
|
|
task she never liked.
|
|
|
|
"I wish it was Christmas or New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be
|
|
fun?" answered Jo, yawning dismally.
|
|
|
|
"We shouldn't 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. It's like other
|
|
people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I'm so
|
|
fond of luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns
|
|
was the least shabby.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our
|
|
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt
|
|
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
|
|
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get
|
|
so light that I shan't mind her."
|
|
|
|
This idea tickled Jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg
|
|
didn't brighten, for her burden, 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.
|
|
|
|
"Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross
|
|
midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered,
|
|
shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my
|
|
days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
|
|
and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
|
|
It's a shame!"
|
|
|
|
So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable
|
|
at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to
|
|
croak.
|
|
|
|
Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with
|
|
the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were
|
|
not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and
|
|
make a great racket getting ready.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at
|
|
once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
|
|
|
|
"There never was such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper when
|
|
she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon
|
|
her hat.
|
|
|
|
"You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum
|
|
that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
|
|
|
|
"Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them
|
|
drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten
|
|
which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach.
|
|
|
|
Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she
|
|
couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.
|
|
|
|
"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the
|
|
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
|
|
March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.
|
|
|
|
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
|
|
hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were
|
|
an institution, and the girls called them 'muffs', 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.
|
|
|
|
"Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee.
|
|
We are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular
|
|
angels. Now then, Meg!" And Jo 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 couldn't have got through the day without
|
|
that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
|
|
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
|
|
|
|
"If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
|
|
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
|
|
seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
|
|
bitter wind.
|
|
|
|
"Don't use such dreadful expressions," replied Meg from the depths of
|
|
the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
|
|
|
|
"I like good strong words that mean something," replied Jo, catching
|
|
her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away
|
|
altogether.
|
|
|
|
"Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a
|
|
wretch and I don't choose to be called so."
|
|
|
|
"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't
|
|
sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I
|
|
make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and
|
|
high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with."
|
|
|
|
"How ridiculous you are, Jo!" But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt
|
|
better in spite of herself.
|
|
|
|
"Lucky 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. Don't croak any more, but
|
|
come home jolly, there's a dear."
|
|
|
|
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 'fond of luxury', and her chief
|
|
trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others
|
|
because she could remember a time when home was 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 Kings' she daily saw all she wanted, for the
|
|
children's 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 lady's will, but
|
|
the unworldly Marches only said...
|
|
|
|
"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we
|
|
will keep together and be happy in one another."
|
|
|
|
The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet
|
|
Jo at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners
|
|
struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a
|
|
companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place
|
|
since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on
|
|
remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional
|
|
tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it
|
|
longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to
|
|
come back again with such urgency 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, "Josy-phine! Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to
|
|
wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour
|
|
together.
|
|
|
|
Jo's ambition was to do 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 couldn't read, run, and
|
|
ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
|
|
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
|
|
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
|
|
she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed, and the thought
|
|
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite
|
|
of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"
|
|
|
|
Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she
|
|
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home
|
|
with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
|
|
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went
|
|
faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. 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, "I hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."
|
|
|
|
Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but
|
|
a very human little girl, she often 'wept a little weep' as Jo said,
|
|
because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She
|
|
loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and 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
|
|
wouldn't 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, "I know I'll get my music some
|
|
time, if I'm good."
|
|
|
|
There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
|
|
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees 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, "My nose." 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
|
|
'Petrea's', 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.
|
|
|
|
"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
|
|
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
|
|
fairies, or illustrating stories 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, "When Papa was rich we
|
|
did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were
|
|
considered 'perfectly elegant' 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 cousin's
|
|
clothes. Now Florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
|
|
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
|
|
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
|
|
good, well made, and little worn, but Amy's artistic eyes were much
|
|
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
|
|
purple with yellow dots and no trimming.
|
|
|
|
"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that
|
|
Mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
|
|
Parks's mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she
|
|
is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school.
|
|
When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my
|
|
flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it."
|
|
|
|
Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of
|
|
opposites Jo was gentle Beth's. 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,
|
|
'playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of
|
|
discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.
|
|
|
|
"Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm
|
|
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together
|
|
that evening.
|
|
|
|
"I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll
|
|
tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was
|
|
reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for
|
|
Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like
|
|
fury till she wakes up. I actually 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."
|
|
|
|
"I wish I could, and be done with it," said I, trying not to be saucy.
|
|
|
|
"Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and
|
|
think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She never
|
|
finds herself very soon, so the 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. I'd 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...
|
|
|
|
"'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it,
|
|
child.'"
|
|
|
|
"Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
|
|
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
|
|
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am. Shan't I stop now?'"
|
|
|
|
"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave
|
|
me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, 'Finish
|
|
the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss'."
|
|
|
|
"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back
|
|
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar
|
|
that she didn't 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 don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all
|
|
rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.
|
|
|
|
"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
|
|
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came
|
|
home. At the Kings' 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 shouldn't see how red and swollen their eyes were.
|
|
I didn't ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and
|
|
was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and
|
|
disgrace the family."
|
|
|
|
"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than
|
|
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
|
|
experience of life had been a deep one. "Susie 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, 'Young ladies,
|
|
my eye is upon you!' 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 _parry_lized with fright,
|
|
but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the
|
|
ear--the ear! Just fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation
|
|
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so
|
|
everyone could see."
|
|
|
|
"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
|
|
scrape.
|
|
|
|
"Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know
|
|
she did. I didn't envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian
|
|
rings wouldn't have made me happy after that. I never, never should
|
|
have got over such a agonizing mortification." And Amy went on with her
|
|
work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance
|
|
of two long words in a breath.
|
|
|
|
"I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at
|
|
dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in
|
|
order as she talked. "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.
|
|
Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn't 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 hadn't any
|
|
dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day's work.
|
|
Mr. Cutter was in a hurry and said 'No', rather crossly, so she was
|
|
going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big
|
|
fish with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was
|
|
so glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him
|
|
over and over. He told her to 'go along and cook it', and she hurried
|
|
off, so happy! Wasn't it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny,
|
|
hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven
|
|
would be 'aisy'."
|
|
|
|
When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for one,
|
|
and after a moments thought, she said soberly, "As I sat cutting out
|
|
blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about
|
|
Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we 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.
|
|
|
|
"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked, for the note he brought was not
|
|
to me."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and
|
|
I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.' he
|
|
answered quietly."
|
|
|
|
"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
|
|
respect now, instead of pity."
|
|
|
|
"'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any
|
|
use. As I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'"
|
|
|
|
"He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
|
|
his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man and thought
|
|
it too much, while he gave four 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."
|
|
|
|
"Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like
|
|
to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,"
|
|
said Jo, after a minute's silence.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this
|
|
little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.
|
|
|
|
"Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and
|
|
drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and
|
|
parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here
|
|
the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew
|
|
diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many
|
|
excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were
|
|
constantly saying, 'If only we had this,' or 'If we could only do
|
|
that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things
|
|
they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they
|
|
could use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel
|
|
discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo
|
|
looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing
|
|
that the story was not done yet.)
|
|
|
|
"Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
|
|
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
|
|
couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another
|
|
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her
|
|
youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old
|
|
lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it
|
|
was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and
|
|
the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good
|
|
behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings
|
|
already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken
|
|
away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never
|
|
disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."
|
|
|
|
"Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
|
|
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg.
|
|
|
|
"I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us,"
|
|
said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion.
|
|
|
|
"I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
|
|
careful than ever now, for I've had warning from Susie's downfall,"
|
|
said Amy morally.
|
|
|
|
"We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do so, you just
|
|
say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, 'Tink ob yer marcies,
|
|
chillen!' 'Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life
|
|
of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though
|
|
she took it to heart as much as any of them.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FIVE
|
|
|
|
BEING NEIGHBORLY
|
|
|
|
"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg one snowy
|
|
afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber
|
|
boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the
|
|
other.
|
|
|
|
"Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her
|
|
eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!
|
|
It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the
|
|
fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver.
|
|
|
|
"Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and not being a
|
|
pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm
|
|
going to find some."
|
|
|
|
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 Marches' 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 Jo's 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.
|
|
|
|
"That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His
|
|
grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all
|
|
alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young
|
|
and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman
|
|
so!"
|
|
|
|
The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always
|
|
scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of 'going over'
|
|
was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, 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.
|
|
|
|
"There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal
|
|
day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and
|
|
then say a kind word to him."
|
|
|
|
Up went a handful of soft 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...
|
|
|
|
"How do you do? Are you sick?"
|
|
|
|
Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven...
|
|
|
|
"Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."
|
|
|
|
"I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing. It's dull as tombs up here."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you read?"
|
|
|
|
"Not much. They won't let me."
|
|
|
|
"Can't somebody read to you?"
|
|
|
|
"Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and I hate to
|
|
ask Brooke all the time."
|
|
|
|
"Have someone come and see you then."
|
|
|
|
"There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head
|
|
is weak."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet
|
|
and like to play nurse."
|
|
|
|
"Don't know any."
|
|
|
|
"You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped.
|
|
|
|
"So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go
|
|
ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come."
|
|
|
|
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 'a little gentleman', 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,
|
|
than a decided voice, asking for 'Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking
|
|
servant came running up to announce a young lady.
|
|
|
|
"All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door
|
|
of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite
|
|
at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens
|
|
in the other.
|
|
|
|
"Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love,
|
|
and was glad 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 you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't
|
|
refuse, she was so anxious to do something."
|
|
|
|
It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in
|
|
laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew
|
|
sociable at once.
|
|
|
|
"That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo
|
|
uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland
|
|
of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.
|
|
Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It's so simple you can eat
|
|
it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.
|
|
What a cozy room this is!"
|
|
|
|
"It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't
|
|
know how to make them mind. It worries me though."
|
|
|
|
"I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth
|
|
brushed, so--and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so--and
|
|
the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from
|
|
the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you're fixed."
|
|
|
|
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...
|
|
|
|
"How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the
|
|
big chair and let me do something to amuse my company."
|
|
|
|
"No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked
|
|
affectionately toward some inviting books near by.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you! I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather
|
|
talk," answered Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit. I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I
|
|
never know when to stop."
|
|
|
|
"Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes
|
|
out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, that's Beth. She's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too."
|
|
|
|
"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?"
|
|
|
|
"How did you find that out?"
|
|
|
|
Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you
|
|
calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help
|
|
looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good
|
|
times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget
|
|
to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when
|
|
the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire,
|
|
and you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right
|
|
opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help
|
|
watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie poked the
|
|
fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.
|
|
|
|
The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart.
|
|
She had been so simply taught that 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...
|
|
|
|
"We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look
|
|
as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd
|
|
come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of
|
|
good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would
|
|
dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties,
|
|
and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?"
|
|
|
|
"I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he
|
|
does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's
|
|
afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening
|
|
more and more.
|
|
|
|
"We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be
|
|
a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever
|
|
so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got
|
|
acquainted with all our neighbors but you."
|
|
|
|
"You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what
|
|
happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know,
|
|
and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get
|
|
on as I can."
|
|
|
|
"That's bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere
|
|
you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places
|
|
to go to. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long if you keep
|
|
going."
|
|
|
|
Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of
|
|
bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible
|
|
not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.
|
|
|
|
"Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a
|
|
little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about
|
|
her, well pleased.
|
|
|
|
"Don't go to school, I'm a businessman--girl, I mean. I go to wait on
|
|
my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo.
|
|
|
|
Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just
|
|
in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's
|
|
affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.
|
|
|
|
Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt
|
|
March, so she gave him a lively 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.
|
|
|
|
"Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking
|
|
his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.
|
|
|
|
Much elated with her success, Jo did 'tell on', all about their plays
|
|
and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting
|
|
events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got
|
|
to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie
|
|
loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.
|
|
|
|
"If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out,
|
|
so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe you are!" 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.
|
|
|
|
"What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair
|
|
and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore
|
|
Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added
|
|
impressively.
|
|
|
|
"A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he
|
|
perched on a table opposite.
|
|
|
|
Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with
|
|
alarm, "Mercy me! It's your grandpa!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,"
|
|
returned the boy, looking wicked.
|
|
|
|
"I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should
|
|
be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse
|
|
for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the
|
|
door.
|
|
|
|
"I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only
|
|
afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I
|
|
couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully.
|
|
|
|
"The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,"
|
|
said Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here," 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, "I'm sure now
|
|
that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his
|
|
mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.
|
|
He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her
|
|
great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.
|
|
|
|
Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't 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, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?"
|
|
|
|
"Not much, sir."
|
|
|
|
"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"
|
|
|
|
"Not quite, sir."
|
|
|
|
"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?"
|
|
|
|
"I only said I thought so."
|
|
|
|
"But you like me in spite of it?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I do, sir."
|
|
|
|
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, "You've
|
|
got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine
|
|
man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and
|
|
I was proud to be his friend."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it
|
|
suited her exactly.
|
|
|
|
"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next
|
|
question, sharply put.
|
|
|
|
"Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo told how her visit came
|
|
about.
|
|
|
|
"You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good
|
|
perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could,
|
|
for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said
|
|
Jo eagerly.
|
|
|
|
"Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?"
|
|
|
|
"Doing nicely, sir." 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.
|
|
|
|
"Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother
|
|
some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on
|
|
the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly."
|
|
|
|
"If you'd like to have me, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm
|
|
with old-fashioned courtesy.
|
|
|
|
"What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away,
|
|
while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the
|
|
story at home.
|
|
|
|
"Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old
|
|
gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a
|
|
start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his
|
|
redoubtable grandfather.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant
|
|
little glance.
|
|
|
|
"That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea,
|
|
sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by
|
|
way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a
|
|
series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an
|
|
explosion of laughter from Jo.
|
|
|
|
The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea,
|
|
but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old
|
|
friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was
|
|
color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner,
|
|
and genuine merriment in his laugh.
|
|
|
|
"She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can
|
|
do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked
|
|
Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand
|
|
the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.
|
|
|
|
If the Laurences had been what Jo called 'prim and poky', 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, "Please give these to your mother,
|
|
and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much."
|
|
|
|
They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing
|
|
room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which
|
|
stood open.
|
|
|
|
"Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful
|
|
expression.
|
|
|
|
"Sometimes," he answered modestly.
|
|
|
|
"Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth."
|
|
|
|
"Won't you first?"
|
|
|
|
"Don't know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly."
|
|
|
|
So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in
|
|
heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the 'Laurence'
|
|
boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put
|
|
on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so,
|
|
only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to
|
|
his rescue.
|
|
|
|
"That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not
|
|
good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in
|
|
more important things. Going? well, I'm much obliged to you, and I
|
|
hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor
|
|
Jo."
|
|
|
|
He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.
|
|
When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something
|
|
amiss. He shook his head.
|
|
|
|
"No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me play."
|
|
|
|
"Why not?"
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't."
|
|
|
|
"No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take
|
|
care of yourself, won't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but you will come again, I hope?"
|
|
|
|
"If you promise to come and see us after you are well."
|
|
|
|
"I will."
|
|
|
|
"Good night, Laurie!"
|
|
|
|
"Good night, Jo, good night!"
|
|
|
|
When all the afternoon's 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.
|
|
|
|
"Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo,
|
|
who was of an inquiring disposition.
|
|
|
|
"I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's 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 'glowered' as Jo said."
|
|
|
|
"Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg.
|
|
|
|
"How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not
|
|
plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."
|
|
|
|
"That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
|
|
suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
|
|
sentimental.
|
|
|
|
"What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to
|
|
him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental.
|
|
|
|
"I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to
|
|
behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent
|
|
him."
|
|
|
|
"He meant the blanc mange, I suppose."
|
|
|
|
"How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."
|
|
|
|
"Did he?" And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her
|
|
before.
|
|
|
|
"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get
|
|
it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the
|
|
matter.
|
|
|
|
"I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly
|
|
and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have
|
|
any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be
|
|
good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and
|
|
see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
|
|
remember that children should be children as long as they can."
|
|
|
|
"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
|
|
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"
|
|
|
|
"I was thinking about our '_Pilgrim's Progress_'," answered Beth, who
|
|
had not heard a word. "How 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."
|
|
|
|
"We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather
|
|
liked the prospect.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER SIX
|
|
|
|
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. March's
|
|
motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in
|
|
that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and
|
|
interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.
|
|
|
|
All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new
|
|
friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie,
|
|
and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly
|
|
splendid girls." 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 Marches'.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward," said
|
|
the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too
|
|
hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she
|
|
is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his
|
|
grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He
|
|
can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs.
|
|
March is doing more for him than we can."
|
|
|
|
What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such
|
|
sleigh rides and skating frolics, such 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 heart's content, and Laurie played 'lord of the manor' in
|
|
the most delightful style.
|
|
|
|
But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up
|
|
courage to go to the 'Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it. She went
|
|
once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity,
|
|
stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so
|
|
loud, that he frightened her so much her 'feet chattered on the floor',
|
|
she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never
|
|
go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or
|
|
enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr.
|
|
Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.
|
|
During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation
|
|
to music, and talked away about 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 Laurie's
|
|
lessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred
|
|
to him, he said to Mrs. March...
|
|
|
|
"The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting
|
|
too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some
|
|
of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just
|
|
to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"
|
|
|
|
Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to
|
|
keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and
|
|
the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her
|
|
breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with
|
|
an odd little nod and smile...
|
|
|
|
"They needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I'm
|
|
shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a
|
|
great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine
|
|
o'clock."
|
|
|
|
Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that
|
|
last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please, tell the young
|
|
ladies what I say, and if they don't care to come, why, never mind."
|
|
Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a
|
|
face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...
|
|
|
|
"Oh sir, they do care, very very much!"
|
|
|
|
"Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as
|
|
he looked down at her very kindly.
|
|
|
|
"I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure
|
|
nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude,
|
|
and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
|
|
|
|
"Not 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."
|
|
|
|
"How kind you are, sir!"
|
|
|
|
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...
|
|
|
|
"I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my
|
|
dear! Good day, madam." 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 isn't 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.
|
|
|
|
"Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so
|
|
kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do
|
|
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, dear. It will 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," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in
|
|
granting Beth's 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 Laurie's 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...
|
|
|
|
"Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Beth, he's sent you..." began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly
|
|
energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down
|
|
the window.
|
|
|
|
Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters
|
|
seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
|
|
pointing and all saying at once, "Look there! Look there!" Beth did
|
|
look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a
|
|
little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed
|
|
like a sign board to "Miss Elizabeth March."
|
|
|
|
"For me?" gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should
|
|
tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you
|
|
think he's the dearest old man in the world? Here's the key in the
|
|
letter. We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says,"
|
|
cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.
|
|
|
|
"You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and
|
|
Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.
|
|
|
|
Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw
|
|
were...
|
|
|
|
"Miss March: "Dear Madam--"
|
|
|
|
"How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!" said Amy,
|
|
who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.
|
|
|
|
"'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any
|
|
that suited me so well as yours,'" continues Jo. "'Heart's-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 'the old gentleman' to
|
|
send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he
|
|
lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain "'Your grateful
|
|
friend and humble servant, 'JAMES LAURENCE'."
|
|
|
|
"There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me
|
|
how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept
|
|
all her little things carefully. Just think, he's given you her piano.
|
|
That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said Jo, trying
|
|
to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever
|
|
been before.
|
|
|
|
"See 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," added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying
|
|
its beauties.
|
|
|
|
"'Your humble servant, James Laurence'. Only think of his writing that
|
|
to you. I'll tell the girls. They'll think it's splendid," said Amy,
|
|
much impressed by the note.
|
|
|
|
"Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the baby pianny," 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.
|
|
|
|
"You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke, for the
|
|
idea of the child's really going never entered her head.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking
|
|
about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth
|
|
walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the
|
|
Laurences' door.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The
|
|
pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right mind,"
|
|
cried Hannah, staring after her, 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, "come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who
|
|
looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a
|
|
small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for..." But she
|
|
didn't finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech
|
|
and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she
|
|
put both arms round his neck and kissed him.
|
|
|
|
If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
|
|
wouldn't 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, "Well, I do believe
|
|
the world is coming to an end."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER SEVEN
|
|
|
|
AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION
|
|
|
|
"That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie
|
|
clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
|
|
|
|
"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? And very handsome
|
|
ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about
|
|
her friend.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need
|
|
fire up when I admire his riding."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called
|
|
him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.
|
|
|
|
"You needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis
|
|
says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a
|
|
little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to
|
|
herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
|
|
|
|
"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's
|
|
second blunder.
|
|
|
|
"I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to
|
|
have the rag money for a month."
|
|
|
|
"In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you
|
|
know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged
|
|
at the shop."
|
|
|
|
"Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be
|
|
pricking bits of rubber to make balls." And Meg tried to keep her
|
|
countenance, Amy looked so grave and important.
|
|
|
|
"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to
|
|
be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for
|
|
everyone is sucking them in their 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 she's mad with
|
|
her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck. They
|
|
treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them,
|
|
and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know."
|
|
|
|
"How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking
|
|
out her purse.
|
|
|
|
"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a
|
|
treat for you. Don't you like limes?"
|
|
|
|
"Not much. You may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as
|
|
long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a
|
|
grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate
|
|
about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering
|
|
for one."
|
|
|
|
Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the
|
|
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
|
|
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
|
|
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got
|
|
twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to
|
|
treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends
|
|
became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on
|
|
the spot. Mary Kinglsey insisted on lending her her watch till recess,
|
|
and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon
|
|
her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish
|
|
answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss
|
|
Snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too
|
|
flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not
|
|
too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that Snow
|
|
girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all
|
|
of a sudden, for you won't get any."
|
|
|
|
A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning,
|
|
and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her
|
|
foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume
|
|
the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes
|
|
before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with
|
|
disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale
|
|
compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking
|
|
an important 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, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear".
|
|
The word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and
|
|
he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat
|
|
with unusual rapidity.
|
|
|
|
"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"
|
|
|
|
At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,
|
|
gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.
|
|
|
|
"Miss March, come to the desk."
|
|
|
|
Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed
|
|
her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
|
|
|
|
"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
|
|
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
|
|
|
|
"Don't take all." whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great
|
|
presence of mind.
|
|
|
|
Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr.
|
|
Davis, feeling that any man 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.
|
|
|
|
"Is that all?"
|
|
|
|
"Not quite," stammered Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Bring the rest immediately."
|
|
|
|
With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
|
|
|
|
"You are sure there are no more?"
|
|
|
|
"I never lie, sir."
|
|
|
|
"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them
|
|
out of the window."
|
|
|
|
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. This--this 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 "Hem!"
|
|
and said, in his most impressive manner...
|
|
|
|
"Young 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."
|
|
|
|
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 'old Davis', as, of course, he was
|
|
called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word
|
|
if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent
|
|
in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible
|
|
gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.
|
|
|
|
"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received,
|
|
and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head
|
|
defiantly, and bore 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.
|
|
|
|
"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
|
|
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.
|
|
|
|
That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat,
|
|
and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her
|
|
few enemies, but to face the whole school, with 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, "I shall have to tell at home, and they
|
|
will be so disappointed in me!"
|
|
|
|
The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last,
|
|
and the word 'Recess!' had never seemed so welcome to her before.
|
|
|
|
"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
|
|
uncomfortable.
|
|
|
|
He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she
|
|
went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched
|
|
her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared
|
|
to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the
|
|
older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held
|
|
at once. Mrs. March did 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 'villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner
|
|
as if she had him under her pestle.
|
|
|
|
No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates, but the
|
|
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in
|
|
the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just 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 Amy's 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.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
|
|
little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't
|
|
approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.
|
|
Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with
|
|
are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I
|
|
send you anywhere else."
|
|
|
|
"That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
|
|
school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,"
|
|
sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr.
|
|
|
|
"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved
|
|
some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather
|
|
disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
|
|
|
|
"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?"
|
|
cried Amy.
|
|
|
|
"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her
|
|
mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't 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."
|
|
|
|
"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo.
|
|
"I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and
|
|
she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed
|
|
when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told
|
|
her."
|
|
|
|
"I wish I'd known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I'm
|
|
so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
|
|
|
|
"You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,"
|
|
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, "Is Laurie an
|
|
accomplished boy?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will
|
|
make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother.
|
|
|
|
"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him
|
|
so much."
|
|
|
|
"I see. It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to
|
|
show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.
|
|
|
|
"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and
|
|
conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display
|
|
them," said Mrs. March.
|
|
|
|
"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
|
|
ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo, and
|
|
the lecture ended in a laugh.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER EIGHT
|
|
|
|
JO MEETS APOLLYON
|
|
|
|
"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one
|
|
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an
|
|
air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions," 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 "run away, dear" 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, "Do tell me!
|
|
I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her
|
|
piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."
|
|
|
|
"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in
|
|
impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can't
|
|
go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it."
|
|
|
|
"You are going 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. Aren't you going with him?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering."
|
|
|
|
Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her
|
|
pocket.
|
|
|
|
"I know! I know! You're going to the theater to see the _Seven
|
|
Castles!_" she cried, adding resolutely, "and I shall go, for Mother
|
|
said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and it was mean not to
|
|
tell me in time."
|
|
|
|
"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly.
|
|
"Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not
|
|
well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you
|
|
can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."
|
|
|
|
"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please
|
|
let me. I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying
|
|
for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as
|
|
pathetic as she could.
|
|
|
|
"Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle
|
|
her up well," began Meg.
|
|
|
|
"If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie won't like it, and it
|
|
will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I
|
|
should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said
|
|
Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child
|
|
when she wanted to enjoy herself.
|
|
|
|
Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,
|
|
in her most aggravating way, "I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay
|
|
for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."
|
|
|
|
"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit
|
|
alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our
|
|
pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper
|
|
when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step, so you may just stay
|
|
where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her
|
|
finger in her hurry.
|
|
|
|
Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to
|
|
reason with her, when Laurie called 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, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain't."
|
|
|
|
"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.
|
|
|
|
They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_
|
|
was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the
|
|
comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and
|
|
princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy
|
|
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she
|
|
amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
|
|
'sorry for it'. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the
|
|
course of their lives, for 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, Jo's
|
|
first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had
|
|
soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the
|
|
floor. Everything 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, "Has anyone taken my book?"
|
|
|
|
Meg and Beth said, "No." at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the
|
|
fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in
|
|
a minute.
|
|
|
|
"Amy, you've got it!"
|
|
|
|
"No, I haven't."
|
|
|
|
"You know where it is, then!"
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't."
|
|
|
|
"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
|
|
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
|
|
care."
|
|
|
|
"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
|
|
make you." And Jo gave her a slight shake.
|
|
|
|
"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book
|
|
again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?"
|
|
|
|
"I burned it up."
|
|
|
|
"What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
|
|
finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?" said Jo,
|
|
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy
|
|
nervously.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday,
|
|
and I have, so..."
|
|
|
|
Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
|
|
till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and
|
|
anger...
|
|
|
|
"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never
|
|
forgive you as long as I live."
|
|
|
|
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside
|
|
herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of
|
|
the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.
|
|
|
|
The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard
|
|
the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
|
|
sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her
|
|
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 Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of
|
|
several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
|
|
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never 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 Amy's courage to say meekly...
|
|
|
|
"Please forgive me, Jo. I'm very, very sorry."
|
|
|
|
"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer, and from that
|
|
moment she ignored Amy entirely.
|
|
|
|
No one spoke of the great 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 Jo's resentment and healed the breach. It
|
|
was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their
|
|
mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was
|
|
wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most
|
|
when singing time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a
|
|
stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite
|
|
of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not
|
|
seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.
|
|
|
|
As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, "My
|
|
dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,
|
|
help each other, and begin again tomorrow."
|
|
|
|
Jo wanted to lay her head 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 couldn't quite forgive yet. So
|
|
she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was
|
|
listening, "It was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to be
|
|
forgiven."
|
|
|
|
With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or
|
|
confidential gossip that night.
|
|
|
|
Amy was much offended that 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 wouldn't even try when other
|
|
people set them a virtuous example.
|
|
|
|
"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always
|
|
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself,
|
|
and off she went.
|
|
|
|
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
|
|
exclamation.
|
|
|
|
"There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice
|
|
we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me."
|
|
|
|
"Don't 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," said Meg. "Go
|
|
after them. Don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with
|
|
Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind
|
|
thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try," 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right before we
|
|
begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a
|
|
young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
|
|
|
|
Jo heard Amy panting after 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 sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till
|
|
it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
|
|
feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,
|
|
he shouted back...
|
|
|
|
"Keep near the shore. It isn't safe in the middle." Jo heard, but Amy
|
|
was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over
|
|
her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...
|
|
|
|
"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."
|
|
|
|
Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
|
|
far behind, striking out toward the 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
|
|
Jo's 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 Laurie's voice cried
|
|
out...
|
|
|
|
"Bring a rail. Quick, quick!"
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on
|
|
her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping
|
|
his coat round Amy, and 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.
|
|
|
|
"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
|
|
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
|
|
under the treacherous ice.
|
|
|
|
"Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think,
|
|
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied
|
|
her mother cheerfully.
|
|
|
|
"Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it
|
|
would be my fault." And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of
|
|
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
|
|
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
|
|
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
|
|
|
|
"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then
|
|
it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What
|
|
shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair.
|
|
|
|
"Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is
|
|
impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
|
|
head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
|
|
cried even harder.
|
|
|
|
"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
|
|
do anything when I'm in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt
|
|
anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some
|
|
day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help
|
|
me, do help me!"
|
|
|
|
"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this
|
|
day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another
|
|
like it. Jo, dear, we all have our 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."
|
|
|
|
"Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!" And for the moment Jo
|
|
forgot remorse in surprise.
|
|
|
|
"I've 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."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Mother, 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?"
|
|
asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I've 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," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed
|
|
and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.
|
|
|
|
"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the
|
|
sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about, and the more I say
|
|
the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings and say
|
|
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."
|
|
|
|
"My good mother used to help me..."
|
|
|
|
"As you do us..." interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
|
|
|
|
"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years
|
|
had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
|
|
anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
|
|
over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.
|
|
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
|
|
good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me 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."
|
|
|
|
"Poor Mother! What helped you then?"
|
|
|
|
"Your 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."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,"
|
|
cried Jo, much touched.
|
|
|
|
"I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch
|
|
over your 'bosom enemy', 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."
|
|
|
|
"I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me,
|
|
and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his
|
|
finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face,
|
|
and you always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding
|
|
you then?" asked Jo softly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. 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."
|
|
|
|
Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled as she
|
|
spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,
|
|
"Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be
|
|
rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so
|
|
safe and happy here."
|
|
|
|
"My 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."
|
|
|
|
"I thought I'd grieved you."
|
|
|
|
"No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how
|
|
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his
|
|
little daughters safe and good for him."
|
|
|
|
"Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never
|
|
complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering.
|
|
|
|
"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
|
|
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty
|
|
and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to
|
|
need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to
|
|
comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your
|
|
life are beginning and may be 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."
|
|
|
|
Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which
|
|
followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart
|
|
without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not
|
|
only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of
|
|
self-denial and self-control, and led by her mother's 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.
|
|
|
|
"I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn't forgive her, and today,
|
|
if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I
|
|
be so wicked?" said Jo, half 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 Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they
|
|
hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was
|
|
forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER NINE
|
|
|
|
MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR
|
|
|
|
"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
|
|
children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as
|
|
she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room, surrounded by her
|
|
sisters.
|
|
|
|
"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
|
|
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like
|
|
a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.
|
|
|
|
"And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
|
|
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
|
|
occasion.
|
|
|
|
"I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice
|
|
things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
|
|
replenished her sister's cushion.
|
|
|
|
"I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keep my
|
|
adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can
|
|
do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get
|
|
ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
|
|
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
|
|
|
|
"What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?" asked Amy, who had
|
|
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
|
|
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
|
|
the proper time came.
|
|
|
|
"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
|
|
sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over,
|
|
so I must be contented with my old tarlaton."
|
|
|
|
|
|
"It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
|
|
off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
|
|
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
|
|
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
|
|
|
|
"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but
|
|
Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
|
|
and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me
|
|
see, there's my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my
|
|
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks
|
|
heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,
|
|
dear!"
|
|
|
|
"Never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always
|
|
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store
|
|
of finery in which her soul delighted.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to
|
|
do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
|
|
I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the
|
|
fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't like to
|
|
say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told
|
|
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one
|
|
with a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to
|
|
complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one
|
|
with a gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
|
|
disfavor.
|
|
|
|
"Change it," advised Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much
|
|
pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not
|
|
going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
|
|
are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich
|
|
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up
|
|
for common." And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.
|
|
|
|
"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put
|
|
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
|
|
fresh from Hannah's hands.
|
|
|
|
"No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without
|
|
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
|
|
clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
|
|
|
|
"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only
|
|
go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quiet way.
|
|
|
|
"So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does seem as if
|
|
the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There now, the trays
|
|
are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for
|
|
Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the
|
|
half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,
|
|
which she called her 'ball dress' 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 Moffat's 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 'having a good time'. They shopped, walked,
|
|
rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at
|
|
home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew 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 'Daisey', 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
|
|
wouldn't 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 Sallie's crisp new
|
|
one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
|
|
cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.
|
|
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
|
|
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
|
|
arms. But in 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.
|
|
|
|
"It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are
|
|
altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
|
|
|
|
"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in the
|
|
maid, holding it to Meg.
|
|
|
|
"What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the
|
|
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
|
|
|
|
"The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg
|
|
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
|
|
into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
|
|
pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
|
|
cheered her up by their beauty.
|
|
|
|
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
|
|
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
|
|
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
|
|
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'the sweetest little thing
|
|
she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
|
|
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest
|
|
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
|
|
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and
|
|
fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very
|
|
shabby now.
|
|
|
|
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
|
|
heart's content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three
|
|
compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a
|
|
remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who 'the fresh little girl
|
|
with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with
|
|
her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he
|
|
gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till
|
|
she overheard a bit of 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...
|
|
|
|
"How old is he?"
|
|
|
|
"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.
|
|
|
|
"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie
|
|
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
|
|
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs.
|
|
Moffat.
|
|
|
|
"She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
|
|
when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She'd be so nice if
|
|
she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we
|
|
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.
|
|
|
|
"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd 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."
|
|
|
|
Here Meg's 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, "Mrs. M. has
|
|
made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," 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 man's daughter
|
|
was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby
|
|
dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.
|
|
|
|
Poor Meg had a restless 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...
|
|
|
|
"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
|
|
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper
|
|
compliment to you."
|
|
|
|
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
|
|
demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."
|
|
|
|
"Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle.
|
|
|
|
"He's too old."
|
|
|
|
"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!" cried
|
|
Miss Clara.
|
|
|
|
"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide
|
|
the merriment in her eyes.
|
|
|
|
"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
|
|
Belle, laughing.
|
|
|
|
"There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy." And Meg laughed also
|
|
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
|
|
supposed lover.
|
|
|
|
"About your age," Nan said.
|
|
|
|
"Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
|
|
tossing her head.
|
|
|
|
"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
|
|
looking wise about nothing.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are
|
|
so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
|
|
so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg
|
|
hoped they would say no more.
|
|
|
|
"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
|
|
|
|
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle
|
|
with a shrug.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do
|
|
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like
|
|
an elephant in silk and lace.
|
|
|
|
"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for
|
|
Thursday and don't want a thing."
|
|
|
|
"Nor I..." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she
|
|
did want several things and could not have them.
|
|
|
|
"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.
|
|
|
|
"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly
|
|
torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
|
|
very uncomfortable.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
|
|
observing young lady.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
|
|
Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that?
|
|
How funny..." She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head
|
|
at her and broke in, saying kindly...
|
|
|
|
"Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
|
|
isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had
|
|
a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown,
|
|
and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?"
|
|
|
|
"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does
|
|
well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to
|
|
do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and
|
|
there. I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll
|
|
burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,"
|
|
said Belle in her persuasive tone.
|
|
|
|
Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if
|
|
she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept
|
|
and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.
|
|
|
|
On the Thursday evening, 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 'a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They
|
|
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
|
|
breathe and so 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.
|
|
|
|
"Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
|
|
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
|
|
|
|
"Come and show yourself," 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 'a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
|
|
enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in
|
|
the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like
|
|
a party of magpies.
|
|
|
|
"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt
|
|
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver
|
|
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
|
|
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,"
|
|
said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
|
|
|
|
"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere
|
|
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I
|
|
assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be
|
|
sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, 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...
|
|
|
|
"Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families,
|
|
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
|
|
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her."
|
|
|
|
"Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
|
|
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been
|
|
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs. The 'queer feeling' did not pass
|
|
away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so
|
|
got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the
|
|
train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant 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.
|
|
|
|
"Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won't care for
|
|
it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the
|
|
room to shake hands with her friend.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said, with her most
|
|
grown-up air.
|
|
|
|
"Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did," answered
|
|
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
|
|
maternal tone.
|
|
|
|
"What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
|
|
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
|
|
|
|
"I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
|
|
yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove
|
|
button.
|
|
|
|
"How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
|
|
it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making him say
|
|
whether he thought her improved or not.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you like me so?" asked Meg.
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't," was the blunt reply.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?" in an anxious tone.
|
|
|
|
He glanced at her frizzled 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.
|
|
|
|
"I don't like fuss and feathers."
|
|
|
|
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg
|
|
walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy I ever saw."
|
|
|
|
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...
|
|
|
|
"They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,
|
|
but they have spoiled her entirely. She's nothing but a doll tonight."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear!" sighed Meg. "I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own
|
|
things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
|
|
uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."
|
|
|
|
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...
|
|
|
|
"Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to
|
|
look offended and failing entirely.
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good. I don't like
|
|
your gown, but I do think you are just splendid." And he waved his
|
|
hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
|
|
|
|
Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch
|
|
the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up. It's the plague of
|
|
my life and I was a goose to wear it."
|
|
|
|
"Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said 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.
|
|
|
|
"Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?" said Meg, as he stood
|
|
fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
|
|
would not own why.
|
|
|
|
"Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity.
|
|
|
|
"Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won't
|
|
understand the joke, and it will worry Mother."
|
|
|
|
"Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg
|
|
hastily added...
|
|
|
|
"I shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to Mother how silly
|
|
I've been. But I'd rather do it myself. So you'll not tell, will you?"
|
|
|
|
"I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say when they ask me?"
|
|
|
|
"Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time."
|
|
|
|
"I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You
|
|
don't look as if you were having a good time. Are you?" And Laurie
|
|
looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...
|
|
|
|
"No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only wanted a little
|
|
fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it."
|
|
|
|
"Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his
|
|
black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
|
|
pleasant addition to the party.
|
|
|
|
"He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for
|
|
them. What a bore!" 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 'like a
|
|
pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort
|
|
of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a
|
|
defender was needed.
|
|
|
|
"You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.
|
|
I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered,
|
|
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher
|
|
stooped to pick up her fan.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not Meg tonight, I'm 'a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things.
|
|
Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers' and be desperately
|
|
good again," she answered with an affected little laugh.
|
|
|
|
"Wish tomorrow was here, then," 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.
|
|
|
|
"Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
|
|
already begun.
|
|
|
|
"Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as
|
|
he went away.
|
|
|
|
This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too
|
|
tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
|
|
masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was
|
|
sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with
|
|
her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had 'sat in the lap of luxury'
|
|
long enough.
|
|
|
|
"It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
|
|
the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg,
|
|
looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
|
|
and Jo on the Sunday evening.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
|
|
dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who
|
|
had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick
|
|
to see any change in children's faces.
|
|
|
|
Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a
|
|
charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her
|
|
spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to 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 Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee,
|
|
saying bravely...
|
|
|
|
"Marmee, I want to 'fess'."
|
|
|
|
"I thought so. What is it, dear?"
|
|
|
|
"Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly.
|
|
|
|
"Of course not. Don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
|
|
speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
|
|
dreadful things I did at the Moffats'."
|
|
|
|
"We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little
|
|
anxious.
|
|
|
|
"I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they
|
|
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
|
|
fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know he did, though
|
|
he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'. I knew it was silly,
|
|
but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
|
|
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me."
|
|
|
|
"Is that all?" 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.
|
|
|
|
"No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
|
|
altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully.
|
|
|
|
"There is something more, I think." And Mrs. March smoothed the soft
|
|
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly...
|
|
|
|
"Yes. It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
|
|
people say and think such things about us and Laurie."
|
|
|
|
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats',
|
|
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill
|
|
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind.
|
|
|
|
"Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo
|
|
indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?"
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing at
|
|
first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I
|
|
ought to go away."
|
|
|
|
"Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle
|
|
such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans' and being kind to
|
|
Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won't he shout
|
|
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?"
|
|
And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good
|
|
joke.
|
|
|
|
"If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must she,
|
|
Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed.
|
|
|
|
"No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
|
|
can," said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go among
|
|
people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,
|
|
ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more
|
|
sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,
|
|
Meg."
|
|
|
|
"Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget all the bad and
|
|
remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you
|
|
very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,
|
|
Mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till
|
|
I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and
|
|
admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half
|
|
ashamed of the confession.
|
|
|
|
"That is perfectly 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."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Mother, do you have 'plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
|
|
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,
|
|
for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and
|
|
heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,
|
|
but not too young to understand me, and mothers' 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 'plans' and help me carry them out, if
|
|
they are good."
|
|
|
|
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
|
|
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,
|
|
and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her
|
|
serious yet cheery way...
|
|
|
|
"I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
|
|
admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and
|
|
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care
|
|
and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen
|
|
by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a
|
|
woman, and I 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.
|
|
I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved,
|
|
contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace."
|
|
|
|
"Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
|
|
themselves forward," sighed Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly.
|
|
|
|
"Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
|
|
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March
|
|
decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere
|
|
lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor 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."
|
|
|
|
"We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she
|
|
bade them good night.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TEN
|
|
|
|
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, "I'd know
|
|
which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so
|
|
she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters.
|
|
Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
|
|
Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying
|
|
experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the
|
|
seeds of which cheerful land aspiring plant were to feed Aunt
|
|
Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant
|
|
flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, 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 'P.C.', 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 'P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper
|
|
called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,
|
|
while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven
|
|
o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges
|
|
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as
|
|
the 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 couldn't, 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:
|
|
|
|
_________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
"THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
MAY 20, 18--
|
|
|
|
POET'S 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 'gainst 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 'P. C.'.
|
|
A. SNODGRASS
|
|
|
|
________
|
|
|
|
THE MASKED MARRIAGE
|
|
(A Tale Of Venice)
|
|
|
|
Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble
|
|
steps, and left its lovely load to swell the
|
|
brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count
|
|
Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks
|
|
and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
|
|
Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so
|
|
with mirth and music the masquerade went on.
|
|
"Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?"
|
|
asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who
|
|
floated down the hall upon his arm.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her
|
|
dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds
|
|
Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates."
|
|
|
|
"By 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," returned the troubadour.
|
|
|
|
"Tis whispered that she loves the young English
|
|
artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the
|
|
old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance.
|
|
The revel was at its height when a priest
|
|
appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,
|
|
hung with purple velvet, he 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:
|
|
|
|
"My 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."
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Gladly 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."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"My 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."
|
|
|
|
The count stood like one changed to stone, and
|
|
turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with
|
|
a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I
|
|
can only wish that 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."
|
|
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 gorcerman bought and put it in his shop.
|
|
That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat
|
|
and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went
|
|
and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut
|
|
it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it
|
|
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:--
|
|
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 won't write his piece in
|
|
this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and
|
|
let him send a French fable because he can't write out
|
|
of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains
|
|
in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and
|
|
prepare some 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 butcher's 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 o'er her hapless fate,
|
|
For never more by the fire she'll sit,
|
|
Nor play by the old green gate.
|
|
|
|
The little grave where her infant sleeps
|
|
Is 'neath the chestnut tree.
|
|
But o'er 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 "WOMAN AND HER POSITION"
|
|
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 Doll's Millinery next week.
|
|
The latest Paris fashions have arrived,
|
|
and orders are respectfully solicited.
|
|
|
|
A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville
|
|
Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which
|
|
will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage.
|
|
"The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name
|
|
of this thrilling drama!!!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
HINTS
|
|
|
|
If S.P. didn't use so much soap on his hands,
|
|
he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A.S.
|
|
is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T.
|
|
please don't forget Amy's napkin. N.W. must
|
|
not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
WEEKLY REPORT
|
|
|
|
Meg--Good.
|
|
Jo--Bad.
|
|
Beth--Very Good.
|
|
Amy--Middling.
|
|
|
|
_________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary
|
|
attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new
|
|
member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for
|
|
it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary
|
|
value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr.
|
|
Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do
|
|
have him."
|
|
|
|
Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather
|
|
anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat.
|
|
|
|
"We'll put it to a vote," said the President. "All in favor of this
|
|
motion please to manifest it by saying, 'Aye'."
|
|
|
|
A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a
|
|
timid one from Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Contrary-minded say, 'No'."
|
|
|
|
Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great
|
|
elegance, "We don't wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.
|
|
This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper."
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,"
|
|
observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she
|
|
always did when doubtful.
|
|
|
|
Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a
|
|
gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to write,
|
|
and he'll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being
|
|
sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and he does
|
|
so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place
|
|
here, and make him welcome if he comes."
|
|
|
|
This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet,
|
|
looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and
|
|
his grandpa, too, if he likes."
|
|
|
|
This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her
|
|
seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody
|
|
remember it's our Laurie, and say, 'Aye!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly.
|
|
|
|
"Aye! Aye! Aye!" replied three voices at once.
|
|
|
|
"Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the
|
|
fetlock', as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present
|
|
the new member." 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.
|
|
|
|
"You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls,
|
|
as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a
|
|
chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
|
|
|
|
"The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick,
|
|
trying to get up an awful 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, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon,
|
|
gentlemen--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble
|
|
servant of the club."
|
|
|
|
"Good! Good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming
|
|
pan on which she leaned.
|
|
|
|
"My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie with a wave of
|
|
the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed
|
|
for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in
|
|
after lots of teasing."
|
|
|
|
"Come now, don't lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the
|
|
cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the
|
|
new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor,
|
|
I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest
|
|
of this immortal club."
|
|
|
|
"Hear! Hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a
|
|
cymbal.
|
|
|
|
"Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed
|
|
benignly.
|
|
|
|
"I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the
|
|
honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between
|
|
adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the
|
|
lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on
|
|
the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I
|
|
may be allowed the expression. It's the old martin house, but I've
|
|
stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts
|
|
of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books,
|
|
and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it
|
|
will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key,
|
|
and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat."
|
|
|
|
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 'spirit' to the meetings, and 'a tone' to the paper, for his
|
|
orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent,
|
|
being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never
|
|
sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, 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 Hannah's
|
|
charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo's 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 ELEVEN
|
|
|
|
EXPERIMENTS
|
|
|
|
"The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and
|
|
I'm free. Three months' vacation--how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed
|
|
Meg, coming home one warm 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.
|
|
|
|
"Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was
|
|
mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have
|
|
felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a
|
|
churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be 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 she'd find it impossible to part from me.
|
|
I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright,
|
|
for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josyphine, won't
|
|
you--?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did
|
|
actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe."
|
|
|
|
"Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her," said
|
|
Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.
|
|
|
|
"Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy, tasting
|
|
her mixture critically.
|
|
|
|
"She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn't matter. It's too warm
|
|
to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo.
|
|
|
|
"What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the subject
|
|
with tact.
|
|
|
|
"I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from the depths
|
|
of the rocking chair. "I've been routed up early all winter and had to
|
|
spend my days working for other people, so now I'm going to rest and
|
|
revel to my heart's content."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me. I've laid in a heap of
|
|
books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in
|
|
the old apple tree, when I'm not having l----"
|
|
|
|
"Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the 'samphire'
|
|
correction.
|
|
|
|
"I'll say 'nightingales' then, with Laurie. That's proper and
|
|
appropriate, since he's a warbler."
|
|
|
|
"Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time
|
|
and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I will, if Mother doesn't mind. I want to learn some new songs,
|
|
and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully
|
|
out of order and really suffering for clothes."
|
|
|
|
"May we, Mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in
|
|
what they called 'Marmee's corner'.
|
|
|
|
"You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I
|
|
think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as
|
|
bad as all work and no play."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg complacently.
|
|
|
|
"I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp', says.
|
|
Fun forever, and no grubbing!" 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 o'clock.
|
|
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
|
|
Amy's books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but
|
|
'Marmee's corner', which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to 'rest
|
|
and read', 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 'sweet blue muslin', had discovered, after she had
|
|
cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her
|
|
slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a
|
|
raging headache by 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
|
|
Brown's party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she
|
|
had 'nothing to wear'. But these were mere trifles, and they assured
|
|
their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said
|
|
nothing, and with Hannah's 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 'resting and reveling' 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 'a fright'. 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 didn't
|
|
like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the
|
|
time. Tea parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless
|
|
very well conducted. "If one could have a fine house, 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," 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.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy on us! What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in
|
|
dismay.
|
|
|
|
Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather
|
|
bewildered, and a little ashamed.
|
|
|
|
"Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay
|
|
quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It's a very
|
|
queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself. But she
|
|
says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble but take
|
|
care of ourselves."
|
|
|
|
"That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for something to
|
|
do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly.
|
|
|
|
In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and
|
|
they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's
|
|
saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke." 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.
|
|
|
|
"I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think
|
|
of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided and
|
|
felt quite matronly behind the teapot.
|
|
|
|
So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the
|
|
cook's compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet
|
|
scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March
|
|
received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo
|
|
was gone.
|
|
|
|
"Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid, but they
|
|
won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the more
|
|
palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of
|
|
the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly
|
|
little deception for which they were grateful.
|
|
|
|
Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook
|
|
at her failures. "Never mind, I'll get the dinner and be servant, you
|
|
be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders," 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.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
|
|
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some
|
|
asparagus and a lobster, 'for a relish', as Hannah says. We'll have
|
|
lettuce and make a salad. I don't know how, but the book tells. I'll
|
|
have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you
|
|
want to be elegant."
|
|
|
|
"Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't 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."
|
|
|
|
"I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the
|
|
pudding. You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won't you?"
|
|
asked Jo, rather hurt.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but I don't know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You
|
|
had better ask Mother's leave before you order anything," returned Meg
|
|
prudently.
|
|
|
|
"Of course I shall. I'm not a fool." And Jo went off in a huff at the
|
|
doubts expressed of her powers.
|
|
|
|
"Get what you like, and don't disturb me. I'm going out to dinner and
|
|
can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to
|
|
her. "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a vacation
|
|
today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself."
|
|
|
|
The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and
|
|
reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural
|
|
phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic
|
|
eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.
|
|
|
|
"Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going
|
|
downstairs. "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that something is
|
|
wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her."
|
|
|
|
Feeling very much out of 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.
|
|
|
|
"It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a seed or a drop left.
|
|
Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking
|
|
the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.
|
|
|
|
Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding
|
|
him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a
|
|
coffin.
|
|
|
|
"Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said Amy
|
|
hopefully.
|
|
|
|
"He's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead. I'll make
|
|
him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I'll never have
|
|
another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one," murmured
|
|
Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.
|
|
|
|
"The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don't
|
|
cry, Bethy. It's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has
|
|
had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my
|
|
box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice little funeral,"
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Here's a sweet prospect!" 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...
|
|
|
|
"I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"
|
|
|
|
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 straLanguage cannot describe
|
|
nge 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 she'd 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 'deaconed'.
|
|
|
|
"Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only
|
|
it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,"
|
|
thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and
|
|
stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before
|
|
Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss 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. Jo's one
|
|
strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a
|
|
pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle,
|
|
and 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.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.
|
|
|
|
"Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg with a
|
|
tragic gesture.
|
|
|
|
Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had
|
|
given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes
|
|
on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the
|
|
refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when
|
|
she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic
|
|
efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she
|
|
laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even
|
|
'Croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner
|
|
ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober
|
|
ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made
|
|
ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's
|
|
dinner table.
|
|
|
|
They did sober themselves for Beth's sake. Laurie dug a grave under
|
|
the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his
|
|
tender-hearted mistress, and covered with 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.
|
|
|
|
"What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first to
|
|
speak.
|
|
|
|
"It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit like home," added Amy.
|
|
|
|
"It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth, glancing
|
|
with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.
|
|
|
|
"Here's Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you
|
|
want it."
|
|
|
|
As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as
|
|
if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
|
|
|
|
"Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another
|
|
week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned
|
|
toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.
|
|
|
|
"I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"Nor I," echoed the others.
|
|
|
|
"You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a
|
|
little for others, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm
|
|
tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off."
|
|
|
|
"Suppose you learn plain cooking. That's a useful accomplishment,
|
|
which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly
|
|
at the recollection of Jo's dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker
|
|
and heard her account of it.
|
|
|
|
"Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd
|
|
get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I wanted you to 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 don't 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. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter
|
|
to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when
|
|
it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and
|
|
lovely to us all?"
|
|
|
|
"We do, Mother, we do!" cried the girls.
|
|
|
|
"Then 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."
|
|
|
|
"We'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't," said Jo.
|
|
"I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner
|
|
party I have shall be a success."
|
|
|
|
"I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,
|
|
Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing. That will be
|
|
better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as
|
|
they are." said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"I'll do my lessons 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," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example by
|
|
heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to
|
|
my parts of speech."
|
|
|
|
"Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
|
|
that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other extreme
|
|
and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each
|
|
day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth
|
|
of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age
|
|
will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite
|
|
of poverty."
|
|
|
|
"We'll remember, Mother!" and they did.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWELVE
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Here's your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that," she said,
|
|
putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in 'Marmee's corner',
|
|
and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
|
|
|
|
"Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth, delivering
|
|
the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching
|
|
wristbands.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg,
|
|
looking at the gray cotton glove. "Didn't you drop the other in the
|
|
garden?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I'm sure I didn't, for there was only one in the office."
|
|
|
|
"I hate to have odd 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 isn't Laurie's writing."
|
|
|
|
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 mother's 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.
|
|
|
|
"Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered
|
|
the whole post office and stuck outside," said Beth, laughing as she
|
|
went into the study where Jo sat writing.
|
|
|
|
"What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the
|
|
fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, 'Why mind the
|
|
fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if I had
|
|
one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I'll wear it for fun, and
|
|
show him I don't care for the fashion." 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
|
|
|
|
|
|
"That does me good! That's 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."
|
|
|
|
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 it's fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in
|
|
Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet--have a
|
|
fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are
|
|
nice people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys
|
|
steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you
|
|
all to come, can't let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry
|
|
her. Don't bother about rations, I'll see to that and everything else,
|
|
only do come, there's a good fellow!
|
|
|
|
In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I
|
|
can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some
|
|
way."
|
|
|
|
"I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything
|
|
about them, Jo?" asked Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Only that there are 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 didn't admire
|
|
Kate much."
|
|
|
|
"I'm so glad my French print is clean, it's just the thing and so
|
|
becoming!" observed Meg complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?"
|
|
|
|
"Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and
|
|
tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of. You'll come,
|
|
Betty?"
|
|
|
|
"If you won't let any boys talk to me."
|
|
|
|
"Not a boy!"
|
|
|
|
"I like to please Laurie, and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so
|
|
kind. But I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work
|
|
hard and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll
|
|
go."
|
|
|
|
"That's my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love
|
|
you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know, and a cheery word
|
|
kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother," And Jo gave the thin cheek a
|
|
grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back
|
|
the rosy roundness of her youth.
|
|
|
|
"I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,"
|
|
said Amy, showing her mail.
|
|
|
|
"And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to
|
|
him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go," added Beth,
|
|
whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
|
|
|
|
"Now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play
|
|
tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a
|
|
broom.
|
|
|
|
When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning to promise
|
|
them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such
|
|
preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an
|
|
extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo 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 Amy's 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 sisters' toilets by
|
|
frequent telegrams from the window.
|
|
|
|
"There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the
|
|
lunch in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up
|
|
at the sky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There's
|
|
Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here's a
|
|
carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful
|
|
boys. One is lame, poor thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie didn't tell
|
|
us that. Be quick, girls! It's getting late. Why, there is Ned
|
|
Moffat, I do declare. Meg, isn't that the man who bowed to you one day
|
|
when we were shopping?"
|
|
|
|
"So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the
|
|
mountains. There is Sallie. I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all
|
|
right, Jo?" cried Meg in a flutter.
|
|
|
|
"A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it
|
|
looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff.
|
|
Now then, come on!"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It's too absurd!
|
|
You shall not make a guy of yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied
|
|
down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie
|
|
had sent for a joke.
|
|
|
|
"I just will, though, for it's capital, so shady, light, and big. It
|
|
will make fun, and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfortable." With
|
|
that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright 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. Ned's
|
|
assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why
|
|
Laurie 'primmed up his mouth' when speaking of Kate, for that young
|
|
lady had a standoff-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with
|
|
the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an
|
|
observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not
|
|
'dreadful', 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. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it
|
|
was of general utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing
|
|
a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as
|
|
she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if
|
|
a shower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was 'odd', but
|
|
rather clever, and smiled upon her 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 'skill and dexterity'. 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.
|
|
|
|
"Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed with
|
|
exclamations of delight.
|
|
|
|
"Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other
|
|
fellows are staff officers, and 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, let's have a game
|
|
before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."
|
|
|
|
Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the
|
|
other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie,
|
|
Jo, and Ned. The English played well, but the Americans played better,
|
|
and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of
|
|
'76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once
|
|
narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had
|
|
missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was
|
|
close behind her 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'm through! Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first," cried
|
|
the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
|
|
|
|
"You pushed it. I saw you. It's my turn now," said Jo sharply.
|
|
|
|
"Upon my word, I didn't move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is
|
|
allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake."
|
|
|
|
"We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo
|
|
angrily.
|
|
|
|
"Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!"
|
|
returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away.
|
|
|
|
Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time,
|
|
colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket
|
|
with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out
|
|
with much exultation. She went off to get 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 Kate's ball was the last but one and lay near the
|
|
stake.
|
|
|
|
"By George, it's all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one,
|
|
so you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to
|
|
see the finish.
|
|
|
|
"Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said Jo,
|
|
with a look that made the lad redden, "especially when they beat them,"
|
|
she added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a
|
|
clever stroke.
|
|
|
|
Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn't do to exult
|
|
over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer
|
|
to whisper to his friend, "Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him.
|
|
We can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my word for it."
|
|
|
|
Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and
|
|
said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your
|
|
temper, and I'm so glad, Jo."
|
|
|
|
"Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should
|
|
certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the nettles till I
|
|
got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering now,
|
|
so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned Jo, biting her lips as
|
|
she glowered at Fred from under her big hat.
|
|
|
|
"Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary
|
|
general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss
|
|
Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?"
|
|
|
|
"Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that
|
|
her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over
|
|
the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys
|
|
made a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched
|
|
and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes
|
|
to serve as plates.
|
|
|
|
The commander in chief and 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.
|
|
|
|
"There's salt here," said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary
|
|
little ones who had gone to a creamy death. "How dare you remind me of
|
|
that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?" added
|
|
Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run
|
|
short.
|
|
|
|
"I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got over it yet.
|
|
This is no credit to me, you know, I don't do anything. It's you and
|
|
Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I'm no end obliged to you. What
|
|
shall we do when we can't eat anymore?" asked Laurie, feeling that his
|
|
trump card had been played when lunch was over.
|
|
|
|
"Have games till it's cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss
|
|
Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She's company, and
|
|
you ought to stay with her more."
|
|
|
|
"Aren't you company too? I thought she'd suit Brooke, but he keeps
|
|
talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous
|
|
glass of hers. I'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety, for
|
|
you can't do it, Jo."
|
|
|
|
Miss Kate did know several 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.
|
|
|
|
"One 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. It's very funny when well
|
|
done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh
|
|
over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said Kate, with a commanding air,
|
|
which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much 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.
|
|
|
|
"Once 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 king's, 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..."
|
|
|
|
"A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, 'At
|
|
last! At last!'" continued Kate, who had read French novels, and
|
|
admired the style. "'Tis she!' cried Count Gustave, and fell at her
|
|
feet in an ecstasy of joy. 'Oh, rise!' she said, extending a hand of
|
|
marble fairness. 'Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,' swore
|
|
the knight, still kneeling. 'Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain
|
|
here till my tyrant is destroyed.' 'Where is the villain?' 'In the
|
|
mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.' 'I obey, and
|
|
return victorious or dead!' With these thrilling words he rushed away,
|
|
and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when
|
|
he received..."
|
|
|
|
"A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a
|
|
black gown fired at him," said Ned. "Instantly, Sir What's-his-name
|
|
recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to
|
|
join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door
|
|
locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when
|
|
the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet
|
|
below. Could swim like a duck, 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..."
|
|
|
|
"A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in
|
|
its wasted hand," went on Meg. "It beckoned, gliding noiselessly
|
|
before him down a corridor as 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..."
|
|
|
|
"Snuffbox," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the
|
|
audience. "'Thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and
|
|
sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. 'Ha! Ha!'
|
|
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..."
|
|
|
|
"Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, "and, as they
|
|
danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail.
|
|
'Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard alee, and man
|
|
the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight,
|
|
with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. 'Go in and win, my
|
|
hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course
|
|
the British beat--they always do."
|
|
|
|
"No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside.
|
|
|
|
"Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the
|
|
schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers
|
|
ran blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosun's
|
|
mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if
|
|
he doesn't confess his sins double quick,' said the British captain.
|
|
The Portuguese 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, 'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, gracious! What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his
|
|
rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases
|
|
and facts out of one of his favorite books. "Well, 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, 'I'll give
|
|
you a box of pearls if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore
|
|
the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself. So
|
|
the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to
|
|
find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found
|
|
by a..."
|
|
|
|
"Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said
|
|
Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out. "The little girl was sorry for
|
|
them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. 'Your
|
|
geese will tell you, they know everything.' said the old woman. So she
|
|
asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost,
|
|
and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed..."
|
|
|
|
"'Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly. "'Just the thing,' said the
|
|
girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on,
|
|
the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way
|
|
rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other
|
|
heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The
|
|
knight in whom I'm 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. 'Will you give
|
|
me a rose?' said he. 'You must come and get it. I can't come to you,
|
|
it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over
|
|
the hedge, but it seemed to grow 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, 'Let me in! Let me in!'
|
|
But the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her
|
|
roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or
|
|
not, Frank will tell you."
|
|
|
|
"I can't. I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed at the
|
|
sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd
|
|
couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep.
|
|
|
|
"So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?" asked
|
|
Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in
|
|
his buttonhole.
|
|
|
|
"I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a
|
|
while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his
|
|
tutor.
|
|
|
|
"What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do
|
|
something quite clever. Do you know Truth?"
|
|
|
|
"I hope so," said Meg soberly.
|
|
|
|
"The game, I mean?"
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" said Fred.
|
|
|
|
"Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn,
|
|
and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question
|
|
put by the rest. It's great fun."
|
|
|
|
"Let's try it," 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.
|
|
|
|
"Who are your heroes?" asked Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Grandfather and Napoleon."
|
|
|
|
"Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie.
|
|
|
|
"Margaret."
|
|
|
|
"Which do you like best?" from Fred.
|
|
|
|
"Jo, of course."
|
|
|
|
"What silly questions you ask!" And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the
|
|
rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone.
|
|
|
|
"Try again. Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred.
|
|
|
|
"It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn
|
|
came next.
|
|
|
|
"What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in her the
|
|
virtue he lacked himself.
|
|
|
|
"A quick temper."
|
|
|
|
"What do you most wish for?" said Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"A pair of boot lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his
|
|
purpose.
|
|
|
|
"Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most."
|
|
|
|
"Genius. Don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?" And she
|
|
slyly smiled in his disappointed face.
|
|
|
|
"What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie.
|
|
|
|
"Courage and honesty."
|
|
|
|
"Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last.
|
|
|
|
"Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at
|
|
once...
|
|
|
|
"Didn't you cheat at croquet?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, yes, a little bit."
|
|
|
|
"Good! Didn't you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_" said Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Rather."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?" asked
|
|
Sallie.
|
|
|
|
"I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't."
|
|
|
|
"He's a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance
|
|
without waiting to draw. I'll harrrow up your feelings first by asking
|
|
if you don't think you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo
|
|
nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared.
|
|
|
|
"You impertinent boy! Of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie, with an
|
|
air that proved the contrary.
|
|
|
|
"What do you hate most?" asked Fred.
|
|
|
|
"Spiders and rice pudding."
|
|
|
|
"What do you like best?" asked Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Dancing and French gloves."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let's have a sensible game
|
|
of Authors to refresh our minds," proposed Jo.
|
|
|
|
Ned, Frank, and the little 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.
|
|
|
|
"How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw," said Meg, with
|
|
mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it,"
|
|
replied Miss Kate graciously.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't time."
|
|
|
|
"Your 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. Can't you do the same with
|
|
your governess?"
|
|
|
|
"I have none."
|
|
|
|
"I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very
|
|
fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I
|
|
suppose?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't go at all. I am a governess myself."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, indeed!" said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, "Dear
|
|
me, how dreadful!" for her tone implied it, and something in her face
|
|
made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, "Young ladies in America love
|
|
independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and
|
|
respected for supporting themselves."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, of course it's very nice and proper in them to do so. We
|
|
have many most respectable and 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," said
|
|
Miss Kate in a patronizing tone that hurt Meg's pride, and made her
|
|
work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading.
|
|
|
|
"Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking
|
|
an awkward pause.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I'm much obliged to whoever
|
|
translated it for me." And Meg's downcast face brightened as she spoke.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise.
|
|
|
|
"Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don't get on
|
|
very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my pronunciation."
|
|
|
|
"Try a little now. Here is Schiller's Mary Stuart and a tutor who
|
|
loves to teach." And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an
|
|
inviting smile.
|
|
|
|
"It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in
|
|
the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
|
|
|
|
"I'll read a bit to encourage you." And Miss Kate read one of the most
|
|
beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless
|
|
manner.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said
|
|
innocently, "I thought it was poetry."
|
|
|
|
"Some of it is. Try this passage."
|
|
|
|
There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened at poor
|
|
Mary's lament.
|
|
|
|
Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used
|
|
to point with, read slowly and 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.
|
|
|
|
"Very well indeed!" 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,
|
|
"You've 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." And Miss Kate strolled away,
|
|
adding to herself with a shrug, "I didn't come to chaperone a
|
|
governess, though she is young and pretty. What odd people these
|
|
Yankees are. I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them."
|
|
|
|
"I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses
|
|
and don't treat them as we do," said Meg, looking after the retreating
|
|
figure with an annoyed expression.
|
|
|
|
"Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my
|
|
sorrow. There's no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret."
|
|
And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to
|
|
lament her hard lot.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad I live in it then. I don't like my work, but I get a good
|
|
deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won't complain. I only
|
|
wished I liked teaching as you do."
|
|
|
|
"I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very
|
|
sorry to lose him next year," said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in
|
|
the turf.
|
|
|
|
"Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked the question, but her
|
|
eyes added, "And what becomes of you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, it's high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is
|
|
off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed."
|
|
|
|
"I am glad of that!" exclaimed Meg. "I should think every young man
|
|
would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who
|
|
stay at home," she added sorrowfully.
|
|
|
|
"I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die,"
|
|
said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the
|
|
hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.
|
|
|
|
"Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all
|
|
be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said Meg heartily.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, that sounds pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful
|
|
again, but before he 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.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting
|
|
after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned.
|
|
|
|
"I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but
|
|
we don't keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree," added Amy, laughing.
|
|
|
|
"Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?" asked Grace curiously.
|
|
|
|
"Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we've only got
|
|
an old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree
|
|
that has a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some
|
|
reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree
|
|
whenever we like."
|
|
|
|
"How funny!" laughed Grace. "I have a pony at home, and ride nearly
|
|
every day in the park with Fred and Kate. It's very nice, for my
|
|
friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen."
|
|
|
|
"Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I'd rather
|
|
go to Rome than the Row," said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what
|
|
the Row was and wouldn't 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, "I'm afraid you are
|
|
tired. Can I do anything for you?"
|
|
|
|
"Talk to me, please. It's dull, sitting by myself," answered Frank,
|
|
who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.
|
|
|
|
If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a
|
|
more impossible task to bashful 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.
|
|
|
|
"What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over the cards
|
|
and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting," said
|
|
Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.
|
|
|
|
My heart! What shall I do? I don't know anything about them, thought
|
|
Beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said,
|
|
hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you
|
|
know all about it."
|
|
|
|
"I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a
|
|
confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for
|
|
me," said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her
|
|
innocent blunder.
|
|
|
|
"Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said,
|
|
turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one
|
|
of the boys' books in which Jo delighted.
|
|
|
|
Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to
|
|
amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her
|
|
sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking
|
|
away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged
|
|
protection.
|
|
|
|
"Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him," said Jo,
|
|
beaming at her from the croquet ground.
|
|
|
|
"I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if there could be
|
|
no further doubt of it.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long," said Grace to
|
|
Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn
|
|
cups.
|
|
|
|
"My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be," said
|
|
Amy, well pleased at Beth's success. She meant 'facinating', but as
|
|
Grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious 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 lackadiasical expression that she laughed
|
|
outright and spoiled his song.
|
|
|
|
"How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover of a lively
|
|
chorus. "You've kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day,
|
|
and now you snub me."
|
|
|
|
"I didn't mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn't help it,"
|
|
replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, 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, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a particle, but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her
|
|
friend even while confessing her shortcomings.
|
|
|
|
"She's not a stricken deer anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty, and
|
|
succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.
|
|
|
|
On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with
|
|
cordial good nights and good-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, "In
|
|
spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice when
|
|
one knows them."
|
|
|
|
"I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
|
|
|
|
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. Brooke's 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.
|
|
|
|
"What in the world are those girls about now?" 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.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's cool," said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and
|
|
never ask me! They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got
|
|
the key. Perhaps they forgot it. I'll take it to them, and see what's
|
|
going on."
|
|
|
|
Though possessed of half a 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.
|
|
|
|
"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and
|
|
looking wide-awake and good-natured already.
|
|
|
|
It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in
|
|
the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic
|
|
wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the
|
|
little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no
|
|
strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily
|
|
with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her
|
|
pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick
|
|
under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy
|
|
was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud.
|
|
A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he
|
|
ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed
|
|
very lonely and this quiet 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.
|
|
|
|
"May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing
|
|
slowly.
|
|
|
|
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at
|
|
once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we
|
|
thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."
|
|
|
|
"I always like your games, but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away."
|
|
|
|
"I've no objection, if you do something. It's against the rules to be
|
|
idle here," replied Meg gravely but graciously.
|
|
|
|
"Much obliged. I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's
|
|
as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone,
|
|
draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I'm ready." And Laurie
|
|
sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.
|
|
|
|
"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book.
|
|
|
|
"Yes'm." was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his
|
|
gratitude for the favor of admission into the 'Busy Bee Society'.
|
|
|
|
The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to
|
|
ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
|
|
|
|
"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming
|
|
institution is a new one?"
|
|
|
|
"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.
|
|
|
|
"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.
|
|
|
|
"Who cares?" said Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo,
|
|
and don't be afraid."
|
|
|
|
"The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play
|
|
Pilgrim's Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all
|
|
winter and summer."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.
|
|
|
|
"Who told you?" demanded Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Spirits."
|
|
|
|
"No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away,
|
|
and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said
|
|
Beth meekly.
|
|
|
|
"You can't keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now."
|
|
|
|
"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work,
|
|
looking a trifle displeased.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, 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 didn't dawdle."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I should think so," and Laurie thought regretfully of his own
|
|
idle days.
|
|
|
|
"Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring
|
|
our work 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."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see
|
|
and feel beauty of any kind.
|
|
|
|
"It's often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but
|
|
always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
|
|
|
|
"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime--the real
|
|
country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be
|
|
nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could
|
|
ever go to it," said Beth musingly.
|
|
|
|
"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,
|
|
by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered Meg with her sweetest
|
|
voice.
|
|
|
|
"It 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."
|
|
|
|
"You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that," said Jo.
|
|
"I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and
|
|
maybe never get in after all."
|
|
|
|
"You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do
|
|
a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If
|
|
I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?"
|
|
|
|
Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend, but she said
|
|
cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people
|
|
really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will
|
|
get in, for I don't believe there are any locks on that door or any
|
|
guards at the 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."
|
|
|
|
"Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could
|
|
come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause.
|
|
|
|
"I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have,"
|
|
said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had
|
|
betrayed him.
|
|
|
|
"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg.
|
|
|
|
"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, if the girls will too."
|
|
|
|
"We will. Now, Laurie."
|
|
|
|
"After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle
|
|
in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous
|
|
musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I'm never
|
|
to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live
|
|
for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?"
|
|
|
|
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, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of
|
|
luxurious things--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture,
|
|
pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and
|
|
manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a
|
|
bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and
|
|
make everyone love me dearly."
|
|
|
|
"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie
|
|
slyly.
|
|
|
|
"I said 'pleasant people', you know," and Meg carefully tied up her
|
|
shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband and some
|
|
angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect
|
|
without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather
|
|
scorned romance, except in books.
|
|
|
|
"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,"
|
|
answered Meg petulantly.
|
|
|
|
"Wouldn't I though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms
|
|
piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that
|
|
my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something
|
|
splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that
|
|
won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the
|
|
watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall
|
|
write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my
|
|
favorite dream."
|
|
|
|
"Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take
|
|
care of the family," said Beth contentedly.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we
|
|
may all keep well and be together, nothing else."
|
|
|
|
"I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go
|
|
to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole
|
|
world," was Amy's modest desire.
|
|
|
|
"We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants
|
|
to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if
|
|
any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass like a
|
|
meditative calf.
|
|
|
|
"I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the
|
|
door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.
|
|
|
|
"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang
|
|
college!" muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.
|
|
|
|
"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.
|
|
|
|
"Where?"
|
|
|
|
"In your face."
|
|
|
|
"Nonsense, that's of no use."
|
|
|
|
"Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied
|
|
the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he
|
|
fancied he knew.
|
|
|
|
Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across
|
|
the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn
|
|
when he told the story of the knight.
|
|
|
|
"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of
|
|
us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said
|
|
Jo, always ready with a plan.
|
|
|
|
"Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg, who felt
|
|
grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
|
|
|
|
"You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy
|
|
twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but
|
|
I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall dawdle, Jo."
|
|
|
|
"You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure
|
|
you'll work splendidly."
|
|
|
|
"Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie,
|
|
sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please
|
|
Grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see,
|
|
and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and
|
|
I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of
|
|
rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the
|
|
bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if
|
|
I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business. But
|
|
he's set, and I've got to do 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, I'd do it tomorrow."
|
|
|
|
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 man's hatred of
|
|
subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.
|
|
|
|
"I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home
|
|
again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was
|
|
fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was
|
|
excited by what she called 'Teddy's Wrongs'.
|
|
|
|
"That's not right, Jo. You mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie
|
|
mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather
|
|
wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her most maternal tone. "Do your best
|
|
at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he
|
|
won't be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one
|
|
else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you
|
|
left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your
|
|
duty and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being
|
|
respected and loved."
|
|
|
|
"What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good
|
|
advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation
|
|
from himself after his unusual outbreak.
|
|
|
|
"Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his
|
|
own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice
|
|
person because he wouldn't 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."
|
|
|
|
"So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused,
|
|
looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like Grandpa to find
|
|
out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his
|
|
goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't
|
|
understand why your mother was so kind to him, 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 I'll
|
|
do for Brooke."
|
|
|
|
"Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out," said Meg
|
|
sharply.
|
|
|
|
"How do you know I do, Miss?"
|
|
|
|
"I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been
|
|
good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him,
|
|
he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work
|
|
better."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in
|
|
Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your
|
|
window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."
|
|
|
|
"We haven't. Don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything!
|
|
It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here
|
|
is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the
|
|
thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
|
|
|
|
"I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his 'high and mighty' air,
|
|
as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if
|
|
Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather
|
|
for him to report."
|
|
|
|
"Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be
|
|
silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd
|
|
be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were
|
|
our brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly."
|
|
And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.
|
|
|
|
Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand,
|
|
and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven. I'm cross and have been
|
|
out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be
|
|
sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the
|
|
same."
|
|
|
|
Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable
|
|
as possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook
|
|
down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a
|
|
fit person to belong to the 'Busy Bee Society'. In the midst of an
|
|
animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those
|
|
amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound
|
|
of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea 'to draw', and they
|
|
would just have time to get home to supper.
|
|
|
|
"May I come again?" asked Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer
|
|
are told to do," said Meg, smiling.
|
|
|
|
"I'll try."
|
|
|
|
"Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do.
|
|
There's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers like a big
|
|
blue worsted banner as they 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, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear
|
|
old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."
|
|
|
|
|
|
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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SECRETS
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Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow
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chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun
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lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa,
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writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her,
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while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied
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by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of
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his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the
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last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and
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threw down her pen, exclaiming...
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"There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait
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till I can do better."
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Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,
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making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,
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which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart
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red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful
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expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's
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desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it
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she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble,
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who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a
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circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the
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leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and
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putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her
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friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.
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She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to
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the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung
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herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.
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Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled
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away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.
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If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements
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decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till
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she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found
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the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up
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the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly
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dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This
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maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a
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black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building
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opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake,
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pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if
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she were going to have all her teeth out.
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There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,
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and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly
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opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young
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gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself
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in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like
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her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to
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help her home."
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In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the
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general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying
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ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked
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anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed,
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asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?"
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"Not very."
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"You got through quickly."
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"Yes, thank goodness!"
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"Why did you go alone?"
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"Didn't want anyone to know."
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"You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?"
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Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to
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laugh as if mightily amused at something.
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"There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week."
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"What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said
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Laurie, looking mystified.
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"So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"
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"Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a
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gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing."
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"I'm glad of that."
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"Why?"
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"You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes,
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and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."
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Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several
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passers-by smile in spite of themselves.
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"I'll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It's grand fun and
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will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your
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only reason for saying 'I'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?"
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"No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you
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never go to such places. Do you?"
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"Not often."
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"I wish you wouldn't."
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"It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless
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you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have
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a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows."
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"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better,
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and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I
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did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,"
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said Jo, shaking her head.
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"Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without
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losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled.
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"That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his
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set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at
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our house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won't
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be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."
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"Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously.
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"No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in
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bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."
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"Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet. I'm not a fashionable
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party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then,
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don't you?"
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"Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you?
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Or there will be an end of all our good times."
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"I'll be a double distilled saint."
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"I can't bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and
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we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted
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like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money, but didn't know how to
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spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his
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father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid."
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"You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged."
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"No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about money
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being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I
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shouldn't worry then."
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"Do you worry about me, Jo?"
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"A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,
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for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm
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afraid it would be hard to stop you."
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Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she
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had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled
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as if at her warnings.
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"Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked
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presently.
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"Of course not. Why?"
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"Because if you are, I'll take a bus. If you're not, I'd like to walk
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with you and tell you something very interesting."
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"I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely."
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"Very well, then, come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must
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tell me yours."
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"I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that
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she had.
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"You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or I
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won't tell," cried Laurie.
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"Is your secret a nice one?"
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"Oh, isn't it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to
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hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you
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begin."
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"You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"
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"Not a word."
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"And you won't tease me in private?"
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"I never tease."
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"Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don't know
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how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."
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"Thank you. Fire away."
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"Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his
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answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.
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"Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried
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Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight
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of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children,
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for they were out of the city now.
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"Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till
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I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone
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else to be disappointed."
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"It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare
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compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be
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fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?"
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Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a
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friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
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"Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you
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again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed
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up at a word of encouragement.
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"I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I
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will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy
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bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is."
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"Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
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twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
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"It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you
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where it is."
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"Tell, then."
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Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a
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comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
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surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you
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know?"
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"Saw it."
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"Where?"
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"Pocket."
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"All this time?"
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"Yes, isn't that romantic?"
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"No, it's horrid."
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"Don't you like it?"
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"Of course I don't. It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. My
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patience! What would Meg say?"
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"You are not to tell anyone. Mind that."
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"I didn't promise."
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"That was understood, and I trusted you."
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"Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you
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hadn't told me."
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"I thought you'd be pleased."
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"At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you."
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"You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."
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"I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely.
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"So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
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"I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind
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since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully.
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"Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested
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Laurie.
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No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and
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finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat
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and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached
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the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his
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treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright
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eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
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"I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air,
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and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it's made
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me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said Jo,
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dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with
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crimson leaves.
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Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled
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up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again.
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But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking
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particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been
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making calls.
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"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her
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disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.
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"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had
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just swept up.
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"And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap.
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"They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats."
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"You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such
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romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and
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smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
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"Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don't try to
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make me grow up before my time, Meg. It's hard enough to have you
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change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can."
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As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her
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lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a
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woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must
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surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in
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her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where
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have you been calling, all so fine?"
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"At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
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Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend
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the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!"
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"Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie.
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"I'm afraid I do."
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"I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
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"Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised.
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"Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a
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poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to
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mind what she said.
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"I shall never '_go_ and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with
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great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping
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stones, and 'behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though
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she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best
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dress on.
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For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
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bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to
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Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a
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woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in
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a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to
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one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared
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they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out
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of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by
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the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally
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capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see,
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but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices
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and a great flapping of newspapers.
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"What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young
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lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
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"I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who
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had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets
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with anyone but her.
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"It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy,
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who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a
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very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually
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elegant and ladylike.
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In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected
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to read.
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"Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension.
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"Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo,
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carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
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"You'd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of
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mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone.
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"What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind
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the sheet.
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"The Rival Painters."
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"That sounds well. Read it," said Meg.
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With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The
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girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat
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pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about
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the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused.
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"I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite
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names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering
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part was tragical.
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"Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.
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The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed
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countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement
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replied in a loud voice, "Your sister."
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"You?" cried Meg, dropping her work.
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"It's very good," said Amy critically.
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"I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" and Beth ran to hug
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her sister and exult over this splendid success.
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Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn't
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believe it till she saw the words. "Miss Josephine March," actually
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printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts
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of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately
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couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth
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got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to
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exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that
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Jo's doin's'. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo
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laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a
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peacock and done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said to
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flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper
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passed from hand to hand.
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"Tell us about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?"
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"What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in
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one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate
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people made a jubilee of every little household joy.
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"Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo,
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wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did
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over her 'Rival Painters'. Having told how she disposed of her tales,
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Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them
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both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and
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noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the
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beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two
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stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it
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and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and
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I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am
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so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the
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girls."
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Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she
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bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be
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independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest
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wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that
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happy end.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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A TELEGRAM
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"November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said
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Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the
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frostbitten garden.
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"That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite
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unconscious of the blot on her nose.
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"If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a
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delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything,
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even November.
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"I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,"
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said Meg, who was out of sorts. "We go grubbing along day after day,
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without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a
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treadmill."
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"My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor
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dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind,
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grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage things
|
|
for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and good enough
|
|
already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune
|
|
unexpectedly. Then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who
|
|
has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze
|
|
of splendor and elegance."
|
|
|
|
"People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have
|
|
to work and women marry for money. It's a dreadfully unjust world,"
|
|
said Meg bitterly.
|
|
|
|
"Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years,
|
|
and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as
|
|
Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.
|
|
|
|
"Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt,
|
|
though I'm grateful for your good intentions."
|
|
|
|
Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and
|
|
leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy
|
|
spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window,
|
|
said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away.
|
|
Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the
|
|
garden as if he had something nice to tell."
|
|
|
|
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter from
|
|
Father, girls?" and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't some of
|
|
you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics till my
|
|
head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.
|
|
It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke
|
|
home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo, you and
|
|
Beth will go, won't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course we will."
|
|
|
|
"Much obliged, but I'm busy." And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for
|
|
she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not
|
|
to drive too often with the young gentleman.
|
|
|
|
"We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to wash
|
|
her hands.
|
|
|
|
"Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning over
|
|
Mrs. March's chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave
|
|
her.
|
|
|
|
"No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear.
|
|
It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as
|
|
regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."
|
|
|
|
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a
|
|
letter.
|
|
|
|
"It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handling it
|
|
as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
|
|
|
|
At the word 'telegraph', Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it
|
|
contained, and dropped back into 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, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children,
|
|
children, help me to bear it!"
|
|
|
|
For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the
|
|
room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help,
|
|
and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the
|
|
first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a
|
|
good example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.
|
|
|
|
"The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time a-cryin', but git
|
|
your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she wiped her
|
|
face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her
|
|
own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.
|
|
|
|
"She's right, there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let
|
|
me think."
|
|
|
|
They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking
|
|
pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.
|
|
|
|
"Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected her
|
|
thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.
|
|
|
|
"Here, ma'am. Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurrying from
|
|
the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow
|
|
was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
|
|
|
|
"Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early
|
|
in the morning. I'll take that."
|
|
|
|
"What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything," he
|
|
said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
|
|
|
|
"Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper."
|
|
|
|
Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew
|
|
the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad
|
|
journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to
|
|
add a little to the sum for her father.
|
|
|
|
"Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.
|
|
There is no need of that."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later
|
|
Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his
|
|
life.
|
|
|
|
"Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way
|
|
get these things. I'll put them down, they'll be needed and I must go
|
|
prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go
|
|
and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I'm not too
|
|
proud to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy,
|
|
tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find
|
|
my things, for I'm half bewildered."
|
|
|
|
Writing, thinking, and 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 mother's absence, which
|
|
comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from his
|
|
own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible.
|
|
Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's 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 he'd be
|
|
back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran
|
|
through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea
|
|
in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
|
|
|
|
"I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the kind,
|
|
quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. "I
|
|
came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has
|
|
commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction
|
|
to be of service to her there."
|
|
|
|
Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg
|
|
put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke
|
|
would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling
|
|
one of time and comfort which he was about to take.
|
|
|
|
"How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it will be
|
|
such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank
|
|
you very, very much!"
|
|
|
|
Meg spoke earnestly, and 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 'slap
|
|
and a bang', 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, "That's my contribution toward making Father
|
|
comfortable and bringing him home!"
|
|
|
|
"My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you
|
|
haven't done anything rash?"
|
|
|
|
"No, it's mine honestly. I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned
|
|
it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own."
|
|
|
|
As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for
|
|
all her abundant hair was cut short.
|
|
|
|
"Your hair! Your beautiful hair!" "Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one
|
|
beauty." "My dear girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't look
|
|
like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!"
|
|
|
|
As everyone exclaimed, and 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, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't 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.
|
|
I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper."
|
|
|
|
"Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame
|
|
you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call
|
|
it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid
|
|
you will regret it one of these days," said Mrs. March.
|
|
|
|
"No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her
|
|
prank was not entirely condemned.
|
|
|
|
"What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of
|
|
cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I was wild to do something for Father," replied Jo, as they
|
|
gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the
|
|
midst of trouble. "I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew
|
|
Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.
|
|
Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some
|
|
clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money,
|
|
if I sold the nose off my face to get it."
|
|
|
|
"You needn't feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got
|
|
the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March with a look
|
|
that warmed Jo's heart.
|
|
|
|
"I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went
|
|
along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to
|
|
dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's
|
|
window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail,
|
|
not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden
|
|
that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to
|
|
think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give
|
|
for mine."
|
|
|
|
"I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his
|
|
hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls
|
|
bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't
|
|
care about mine, it wasn't 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 wasn't done right
|
|
away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to
|
|
do a thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told
|
|
him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it
|
|
changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my
|
|
topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, 'Take it,
|
|
Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I'd do as much for our Jimmy any
|
|
day if I had a spire of hair worth selling."
|
|
|
|
"Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they
|
|
went along.
|
|
|
|
"Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make
|
|
strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man
|
|
clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."
|
|
|
|
"Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a
|
|
shiver.
|
|
|
|
"I 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 I'd an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and
|
|
picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee,
|
|
just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don't
|
|
think I shall ever have a mane again."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short
|
|
gray one in her desk. She only said, "Thank you, deary," but something
|
|
in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully
|
|
as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day
|
|
tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to
|
|
be nursed.
|
|
|
|
No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the
|
|
last finished job, and said, "Come girls." Beth went to the piano and
|
|
played the father's favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down
|
|
one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to
|
|
her music was always a sweet consoler.
|
|
|
|
"Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all
|
|
the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as
|
|
the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
|
|
|
|
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear
|
|
invalid lay in the next room. Beth 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...
|
|
|
|
"Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?"
|
|
|
|
"No, not now."
|
|
|
|
"What then?"
|
|
|
|
"My... My hair!" 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again
|
|
tomorrow, if I could. It's only the vain part of me that goes and
|
|
cries in this silly way. Don't tell anyone, it's all over now. I
|
|
thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my
|
|
one beauty. How came you to be awake?"
|
|
|
|
"I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
|
|
|
|
"I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."
|
|
|
|
"What did you think of?"
|
|
|
|
"Handsome faces--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself
|
|
in the dark.
|
|
|
|
"What color do you like best?"
|
|
|
|
"Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely."
|
|
|
|
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, "Be comforted, dear soul!
|
|
There is always light behind the clouds."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
|
|
|
|
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 Hannah's familiar
|
|
face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap
|
|
on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and 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. Meg's 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...
|
|
|
|
"Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection.
|
|
Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as
|
|
if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that
|
|
you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am
|
|
gone, or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being
|
|
idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is
|
|
a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember
|
|
that you never can be fatherless."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Mother."
|
|
|
|
"Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in
|
|
any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get
|
|
despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl,
|
|
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."
|
|
|
|
"We will, Mother! We will!"
|
|
|
|
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.
|
|
That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried,
|
|
no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very
|
|
heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they
|
|
spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their
|
|
mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands
|
|
cheerfully when she drove away.
|
|
|
|
Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke
|
|
looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him
|
|
'Mr. Greatheart' on the spot.
|
|
|
|
"Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs.
|
|
March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried
|
|
into the carriage.
|
|
|
|
As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it
|
|
shining on the group at the gate like a 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.
|
|
|
|
"How kind everyone is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of
|
|
it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
|
|
|
|
"I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so
|
|
infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey
|
|
began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
|
|
|
|
"I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their
|
|
neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh
|
|
themselves.
|
|
|
|
"It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.
|
|
|
|
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile
|
|
of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in
|
|
her last hurried moments she had 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.
|
|
|
|
"Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret.
|
|
Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work
|
|
and be a credit to the family."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"'Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will
|
|
remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she
|
|
lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
|
|
|
|
"I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend
|
|
to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
|
|
|
|
"No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in
|
|
Amy, with an important air.
|
|
|
|
"Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when
|
|
you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without
|
|
delay.
|
|
|
|
"I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar
|
|
pensively.
|
|
|
|
The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, 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 mother's face. It was gone,
|
|
but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she
|
|
was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.
|
|
|
|
"That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful
|
|
face. "Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain today. Don't
|
|
fret about Father, dear," she added, as they parted.
|
|
|
|
"And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it
|
|
looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the
|
|
curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders.
|
|
|
|
"That's my only comfort." And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went
|
|
Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
|
|
|
|
News from their father 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 couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How
|
|
very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business
|
|
detains him near you so long, since he is so 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 didn't know her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is
|
|
as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told
|
|
her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at
|
|
her little 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, "I'm glad! I'm glad!" Didn't that do as well
|
|
as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have
|
|
such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so
|
|
desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves. You'd
|
|
laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets
|
|
prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children
|
|
are regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be
|
|
anything else. Oh, I must tell you 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 didn't speak as I ought, and he marched
|
|
home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declared I
|
|
wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you
|
|
very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon.
|
|
But I thought he'd come to it, for I was in the right. He didn't come,
|
|
and just at night I 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
|
|
other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
|
|
|
|
I made a 'pome' 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 heart's-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,
|
|
"Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
|
|
But, Hand, you shall work alway!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dear Mother,
|
|
|
|
There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies
|
|
from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see.
|
|
I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep
|
|
with Father's tune. I can't sing 'LAND OF THE LEAL' now, it makes me
|
|
cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without
|
|
you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget
|
|
to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
|
|
|
|
Kiss dear Father on the 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
|
|
girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can
|
|
take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have
|
|
jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me
|
|
sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am
|
|
almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking
|
|
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. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation point nice?
|
|
Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am
|
|
mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop.
|
|
Adieu, I 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 don't stop
|
|
to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up.
|
|
She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em 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 don't 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 he's 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. Don't let your husband want anything.
|
|
Thank God he is mending.
|
|
|
|
Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
|
|
|
|
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
|
|
didn't 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
|
|
sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a
|
|
clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy
|
|
with longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a
|
|
certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made
|
|
her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself.
|
|
Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone 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.
|
|
|
|
"Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not
|
|
to forget them." said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
|
|
|
|
"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably
|
|
as she sewed.
|
|
|
|
"Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Too stormy for me with my cold."
|
|
|
|
"I thought it was almost well."
|
|
|
|
"It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to
|
|
go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of
|
|
her inconsistency.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.
|
|
|
|
"I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to
|
|
do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of
|
|
it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to
|
|
go."
|
|
|
|
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.
|
|
|
|
"Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air
|
|
will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go but I want
|
|
to finish my writing."
|
|
|
|
"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,"
|
|
said Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," 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 mother's room.
|
|
Half an hour after, Jo went to 'Mother's closet' 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.
|
|
|
|
"Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out
|
|
her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .
|
|
|
|
"You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Years ago, when Meg did. Why?"
|
|
|
|
"Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!"
|
|
|
|
"What baby?"
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. Hummel's. It died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth
|
|
with a sob.
|
|
|
|
"My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo,
|
|
taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big
|
|
chair, with a remorseful face.
|
|
|
|
"It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker,
|
|
but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and
|
|
let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little
|
|
cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet,
|
|
and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was
|
|
dead."
|
|
|
|
"Don't cry, dear! What did you do?"
|
|
|
|
"I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor.
|
|
He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore
|
|
throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he
|
|
said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure
|
|
baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to
|
|
help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and
|
|
was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned
|
|
round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right
|
|
away, or I'd have the fever."
|
|
|
|
"No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.
|
|
"Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What
|
|
shall we do?"
|
|
|
|
"Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in
|
|
Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and
|
|
queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
|
|
better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and
|
|
trying to look well.
|
|
|
|
"If Mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
|
|
feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page,
|
|
looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said
|
|
gravely, "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and
|
|
among the others who are going to have it, so I'm afraid you are going
|
|
to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness."
|
|
|
|
"Don't let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to
|
|
her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously.
|
|
|
|
"I guess not. Don't care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let
|
|
you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to
|
|
consult Hannah.
|
|
|
|
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
|
|
assuring that there was no need to 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.
|
|
|
|
"Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined
|
|
and questioned Beth, "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at
|
|
you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we'll send Amy off to
|
|
Aunt March's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you
|
|
girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two."
|
|
|
|
"I shall stay, of course, I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and
|
|
self-reproachful.
|
|
|
|
"I shall, because it's my fault she is sick. I told Mother I'd do the
|
|
errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"Which will you have, Beth? There ain't no need of but one," aid
|
|
Hannah.
|
|
|
|
"Jo, please." And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a
|
|
contented look, which effectually settled that point.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather
|
|
relieved on the 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, "Now be a
|
|
sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what
|
|
a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take
|
|
you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times.
|
|
Won't that be better than moping here?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an
|
|
injured voice.
|
|
|
|
"Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be
|
|
sick, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I'm sure I don't, but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with
|
|
Beth all the time."
|
|
|
|
"That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may
|
|
escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or
|
|
if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I
|
|
advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke,
|
|
miss."
|
|
|
|
"But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking
|
|
rather frightened.
|
|
|
|
"It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,
|
|
and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as
|
|
sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do."
|
|
|
|
"Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?"
|
|
|
|
"On my honor as a gentleman."
|
|
|
|
"And come every single day?"
|
|
|
|
"See if I don't!"
|
|
|
|
"And bring me back the minute Beth is well?"
|
|
|
|
"The identical minute."
|
|
|
|
"And go to the theater, truly?"
|
|
|
|
"A dozen theaters, if we may."
|
|
|
|
"Well--I guess I will," said Amy slowly.
|
|
|
|
"Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with
|
|
an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the 'giving in'.
|
|
|
|
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
|
|
wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
|
|
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
|
|
|
|
"How is the little dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet,
|
|
and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
|
|
|
|
"She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death
|
|
troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she
|
|
thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered
|
|
Meg.
|
|
|
|
"What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful
|
|
way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.
|
|
There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother's gone, so
|
|
I'm all at sea."
|
|
|
|
"Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle
|
|
your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
|
|
anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of
|
|
his friend's one beauty.
|
|
|
|
"That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if
|
|
Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother can't leave
|
|
Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long,
|
|
and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her,
|
|
so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me."
|
|
|
|
"Hum, well, I can't say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor
|
|
has been."
|
|
|
|
"We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg. "We can't
|
|
decide anything till he has been."
|
|
|
|
"Stay where you are, Jo. I'm errand boy to this establishment," said
|
|
Laurie, taking up his cap.
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg.
|
|
|
|
"No, I've done my lessons for the day."
|
|
|
|
"Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer,
|
|
as he swung himself out of the room.
|
|
|
|
"I have great hopes for my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the
|
|
fence with an approving smile.
|
|
|
|
"He does very well, for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer,
|
|
for the subject did not interest her.
|
|
|
|
Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she
|
|
would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.
|
|
Amy was ordered off at once, and 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.
|
|
|
|
"What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,
|
|
while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...
|
|
|
|
"Go away. No boys allowed here."
|
|
|
|
Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.
|
|
|
|
"No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among
|
|
poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick,
|
|
which I've no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don't cry, child,
|
|
it worries me to hear people sniff."
|
|
|
|
Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's
|
|
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,
|
|
"Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
|
|
|
|
"What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly.
|
|
|
|
"Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy. March never had any
|
|
stamina," was the cheerful reply.
|
|
|
|
"Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!"
|
|
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap
|
|
as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.
|
|
|
|
"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you'd better
|
|
go at once. It isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a
|
|
rattlepated boy like..."
|
|
|
|
"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling
|
|
off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the 'rattlepated' boy,
|
|
who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
|
|
|
|
"I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was
|
|
left alone with Aunt March.
|
|
|
|
"Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy
|
|
could not restrain a sniff.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
|
|
|
|
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 Beth's illness. She could not
|
|
think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind
|
|
Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of 'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried
|
|
just for sech a trifle.'
|
|
|
|
Jo devoted herself to Beth 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 'would think of
|
|
it, though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to
|
|
their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of
|
|
coming home for a long while.
|
|
|
|
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how
|
|
heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while
|
|
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
|
|
buy--in 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
|
|
Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all
|
|
hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to
|
|
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 Beth's side.
|
|
|
|
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter
|
|
wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its
|
|
death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he 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, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband
|
|
she'd better be sent for."
|
|
|
|
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, "What is it? Is Beth worse?"
|
|
|
|
"I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a
|
|
tragic expression.
|
|
|
|
"Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked
|
|
Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious
|
|
boots, seeing how her hands shook.
|
|
|
|
"No. The doctor told us to."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, it is. She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the
|
|
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She
|
|
doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.
|
|
Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find
|
|
Him."
|
|
|
|
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's 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, "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"
|
|
|
|
She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the
|
|
friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her
|
|
nearer to the Divine arm which alone could 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.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn, and will
|
|
try to bear it if it comes."
|
|
|
|
"Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother
|
|
will be here, and then everything will be all right."
|
|
|
|
"I'm so glad Father is better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving
|
|
him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and
|
|
I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet
|
|
handkerchief over her knees to dry.
|
|
|
|
"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't
|
|
miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up.
|
|
I can't! I can't!"
|
|
|
|
Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
|
|
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a
|
|
tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till
|
|
he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips.
|
|
It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it.
|
|
Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she
|
|
will die. She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe
|
|
God will take her away yet."
|
|
|
|
"The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped
|
|
crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own
|
|
doubts and fears.
|
|
|
|
"Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a
|
|
bit. I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."
|
|
|
|
Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down
|
|
on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from
|
|
the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for
|
|
the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and
|
|
when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a
|
|
smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth! You are a good
|
|
doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?"
|
|
she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done
|
|
her troubled mind.
|
|
|
|
"I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you something that
|
|
will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said
|
|
Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at
|
|
something.
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
|
|
|
|
"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come
|
|
at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.
|
|
Aren't you glad I did it?"
|
|
|
|
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, "Oh, Laurie! Oh,
|
|
Mother! I am so glad!" 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, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but
|
|
you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't
|
|
help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine
|
|
again, it makes me act so."
|
|
|
|
"I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I
|
|
got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the
|
|
authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive
|
|
us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa
|
|
to say it was high time we did 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 'lorded
|
|
over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I
|
|
know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and
|
|
you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till
|
|
that blessed lady gets here."
|
|
|
|
"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"
|
|
|
|
"Fly at me again. I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking
|
|
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
|
|
|
|
"No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't
|
|
tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless
|
|
you, Teddy, bless you!"
|
|
|
|
Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she
|
|
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a
|
|
dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!"
|
|
while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of
|
|
it.
|
|
|
|
"That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do
|
|
hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah, with an air of
|
|
relief, when Jo told the good news.
|
|
|
|
Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set
|
|
the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case
|
|
of company unexpected". 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. Beth's bird
|
|
began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's
|
|
bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness,
|
|
and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as
|
|
they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming,
|
|
dear! Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that
|
|
heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It
|
|
was a 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,
|
|
"Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All
|
|
day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and
|
|
trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind
|
|
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 bed's foot and fell
|
|
fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling
|
|
that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's 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.
|
|
|
|
"If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered Meg
|
|
earnestly.
|
|
|
|
"If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my life,"
|
|
answered Jo, with equal fervor.
|
|
|
|
"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.
|
|
|
|
"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get
|
|
through it," 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 Laurie's 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 mother's easy
|
|
chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as
|
|
she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me."
|
|
|
|
She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great
|
|
change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of
|
|
pain were gone, and the beloved little face 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, "Good-by, my
|
|
Beth. Good-by!"
|
|
|
|
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, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin'
|
|
nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh,
|
|
my goodness me!"
|
|
|
|
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, "Yes,
|
|
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..."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to
|
|
wane.
|
|
|
|
"See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought
|
|
this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she--went
|
|
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 Mother's face."
|
|
|
|
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed
|
|
so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out
|
|
in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
|
|
|
|
"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
|
|
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
|
|
|
|
"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.
|
|
|
|
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah,
|
|
and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come!
|
|
She's come!"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER NINETEEN
|
|
|
|
AMY'S WILL
|
|
|
|
While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at
|
|
Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her
|
|
life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March
|
|
never petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be
|
|
kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt
|
|
March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children,
|
|
though she didn't think it proper to confess it. She really did 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 children's little cares and joys, make them feel at
|
|
home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and
|
|
receiving friendship in the 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 Amy's 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 March's 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 didn't 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 'Madame', 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 Madame's 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. Amy's chief delight was
|
|
an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and
|
|
secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some
|
|
precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and
|
|
arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel
|
|
cases, in which on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had
|
|
adorned a belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt
|
|
March wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her
|
|
wedding day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning 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 March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had
|
|
played with, and in a box all by itself lay Aunt March's wedding ring,
|
|
too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most
|
|
precious jewel of them all.
|
|
|
|
"Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther,
|
|
who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
|
|
|
|
"I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm
|
|
fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I
|
|
might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold
|
|
and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
|
|
|
|
"I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace. Ah, no! To me it is a
|
|
rosary, and as such I should use it like a good catholic," said Esther,
|
|
eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.
|
|
|
|
"Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads
|
|
hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Truly, yes, to pray 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."
|
|
|
|
"You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and
|
|
always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."
|
|
|
|
"If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort, 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."
|
|
|
|
"Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who in her
|
|
loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was
|
|
apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind
|
|
her of it.
|
|
|
|
"It would be excellent and charming, and I shall gladly arrange the
|
|
little dressing room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame,
|
|
but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good
|
|
thoughts, and pray the dear God preserve your sister."
|
|
|
|
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an
|
|
affectionate heart, and felt 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.
|
|
|
|
"I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March
|
|
dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the
|
|
jewel cases one by one.
|
|
|
|
"To you and your sisters. I know it, Madame confides in me. I
|
|
witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther smiling.
|
|
|
|
|
|
"How nice! But I wish she'd let us have them now. Procrastination is
|
|
not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
|
|
|
|
"It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The
|
|
first one who is affianced will have the pearls, Madame has said it,
|
|
and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you
|
|
when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming
|
|
manners."
|
|
|
|
"Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely
|
|
ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt
|
|
March after all." And Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face
|
|
and a firm resolve to earn it.
|
|
|
|
From that day she was a 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
|
|
Amy's 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 'sit alone' 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 mother's 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 lady's jewels.
|
|
|
|
During one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as
|
|
well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal
|
|
terms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy
|
|
felt relieved and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a
|
|
second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to 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 Laurie's 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, "Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue!
|
|
Kiss me, dear! Ha! Ha!"
|
|
|
|
Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it
|
|
should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.
|
|
|
|
"Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to
|
|
consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown
|
|
her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the trial
|
|
of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head,
|
|
while Laurie seated himself astride a chair.
|
|
|
|
"Yesterday, 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, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I couldn't help laughing,
|
|
which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both."
|
|
|
|
"Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
|
|
yawning.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
|
|
scrambled up on Aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! Catch her! Catch
|
|
her!' as I chased the spider."
|
|
|
|
"That's a lie! Oh, lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
|
|
|
|
"I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie,
|
|
shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely
|
|
croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!"
|
|
|
|
"Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of
|
|
paper out of her pocket. "I 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 don't want any ill feeling over my tomb."
|
|
|
|
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 property--viz. to wit:--namely
|
|
|
|
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 pockets--also
|
|
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 'little girl'.
|
|
|
|
To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my
|
|
bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most precious plaster
|
|
rabbit, because I am sorry I burned up her story.
|
|
|
|
To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau,
|
|
my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being
|
|
thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that
|
|
I ever made fun of old Joanna.
|
|
|
|
To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay
|
|
portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any
|
|
neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction
|
|
any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.
|
|
|
|
To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a
|
|
looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind
|
|
him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family,
|
|
especially Beth.
|
|
|
|
I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron
|
|
and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
|
|
|
|
To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork I leave
|
|
hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see'.
|
|
|
|
And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be
|
|
satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may
|
|
all meet when the trump shall sound. 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.
|
|
|
|
"What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth's giving
|
|
away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape,
|
|
with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
|
|
|
|
She explained and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm sorry I spoke, but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one
|
|
day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her 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."
|
|
|
|
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a
|
|
great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble, but
|
|
she only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills,
|
|
sometimes?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, 'codicils', they call them."
|
|
|
|
"Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given
|
|
round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will
|
|
spoil my looks."
|
|
|
|
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he
|
|
amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But
|
|
when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips,
|
|
"Is there really any danger about Beth?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don't cry,
|
|
dear." And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which
|
|
was very comforting.
|
|
|
|
When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the
|
|
twilight, prayed for Beth, with 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 TWENTY
|
|
|
|
CONFIDENTIAL
|
|
|
|
I don't 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
|
|
Meg's 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 Mother's 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 'dished up' 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 Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to
|
|
stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the
|
|
homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had
|
|
given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.
|
|
|
|
What a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay
|
|
without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So
|
|
quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching,
|
|
and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah
|
|
mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted
|
|
off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like
|
|
storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would
|
|
not leave Beth's 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 'sniffed' herself, and never once said "I told
|
|
you so". 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 Laurie's opinion, that she behaved 'like a capital little
|
|
woman'. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl,
|
|
blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in
|
|
his 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 I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually
|
|
roused by Amy's 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 mother's 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.
|
|
|
|
"On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty
|
|
rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
|
|
garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place
|
|
where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a
|
|
good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them
|
|
if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning
|
|
this."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
|
|
closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I've tried to
|
|
make. The woman's face is not good, it's 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 don't seem so far away, and that
|
|
helps me."
|
|
|
|
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother's knee, Mrs.
|
|
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said
|
|
nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute's pause, she
|
|
added gravely, "I 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 she'd like to
|
|
keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as
|
|
it's too big. I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?"
|
|
|
|
"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such
|
|
ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only
|
|
because it's so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
|
|
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."
|
|
|
|
"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.
|
|
|
|
"No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and
|
|
sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened
|
|
respectfully to the little plan.
|
|
|
|
"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties', and
|
|
being selfish is the largest one in it, so I'm going to try hard to
|
|
cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone
|
|
loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People
|
|
wouldn't feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to
|
|
have them, but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends,
|
|
so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my
|
|
resolutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me, I
|
|
guess I should do better. May we try this way?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but I have more 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."
|
|
|
|
That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the
|
|
traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and
|
|
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
|
|
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
|
|
|
|
"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a
|
|
face which invited confidence.
|
|
|
|
"I want to tell you something, Mother."
|
|
|
|
"About Meg?"
|
|
|
|
"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a
|
|
little thing, it fidgets me."
|
|
|
|
"Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat
|
|
hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
|
|
|
|
"No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
|
|
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
|
|
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences' and only one was returned.
|
|
We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he
|
|
liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor.
|
|
Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?"
|
|
|
|
"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
|
|
look.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried
|
|
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the
|
|
girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin,
|
|
and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort. She
|
|
eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight
|
|
in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit
|
|
when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't
|
|
mind me as he ought."
|
|
|
|
"Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?"
|
|
|
|
"Who?" cried Jo, staring.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now. We fell into the way of doing so
|
|
at the hospital, and he likes it."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part. He's been good to Father, and
|
|
you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean
|
|
thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
|
|
liking him." And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
|
|
|
|
"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it
|
|
happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so
|
|
devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He
|
|
was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved
|
|
her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to 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 Meg's engaging herself so young."
|
|
|
|
"Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief
|
|
brewing. I felt it, and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I
|
|
could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."
|
|
|
|
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, "Jo,
|
|
I confide in you and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When
|
|
John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her
|
|
feelings toward him."
|
|
|
|
"She'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will
|
|
be all up with her. She's 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 doesn't think John an
|
|
ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace
|
|
and fun, and cozy times together. I see it all! They'll 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 weren't
|
|
we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"You don't like it, Mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his
|
|
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as
|
|
we always have been."
|
|
|
|
"I did wrong to sigh, 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."
|
|
|
|
"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her
|
|
mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.
|
|
|
|
"Money 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. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a
|
|
fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money
|
|
come with love and virtue, also, I 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 man's heart, and that is better than a
|
|
fortune."
|
|
|
|
"I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I'm disappointed about Meg,
|
|
for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of
|
|
luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up with a
|
|
brighter face.
|
|
|
|
"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in...
|
|
|
|
"Only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be quite
|
|
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and
|
|
good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pity my plan is spoiled."
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether
|
|
too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don't make
|
|
plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We
|
|
can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic
|
|
rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I won't, 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, more's the pity!"
|
|
|
|
"What's that about flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into
|
|
the room with the finished letter in her hand.
|
|
|
|
"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed. Come, Peggy," said
|
|
Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
|
|
|
|
"Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love
|
|
to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it
|
|
back.
|
|
|
|
"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
|
|
looking down into her mother's.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
|
|
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is
|
|
so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's answer.
|
|
|
|
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went
|
|
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
|
|
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
|
|
|
|
LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE
|
|
|
|
Jo's 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 didn't care; and at last, by dint of perseverance,
|
|
he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling
|
|
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his
|
|
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
|
|
|
|
Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in
|
|
preparations for her father's 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 mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well,
|
|
and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.
|
|
|
|
"She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast.
|
|
She's got most of the symptoms--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat,
|
|
lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he
|
|
gave her, and once she said 'John', as you do, and then turned as red
|
|
as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any
|
|
measures, however violent.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father's
|
|
coming will settle everything," replied her mother.
|
|
|
|
"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals
|
|
mine," said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little
|
|
post office.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg
|
|
made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face.
|
|
|
|
"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo
|
|
tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
|
|
|
|
"It's all a mistake, he didn't send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?"
|
|
and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite
|
|
broken.
|
|
|
|
"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo,
|
|
bewildered.
|
|
|
|
Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from
|
|
her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, "You wrote it, and
|
|
that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel
|
|
to us both?"
|
|
|
|
Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note,
|
|
which was written in a peculiar hand.
|
|
|
|
|
|
"My Dearest Margaret,
|
|
|
|
"I can no longer 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,
|
|
|
|
"Your devoted John."
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Oh, the little villain! That's the way he meant to pay me for keeping
|
|
my word to Mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over
|
|
to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But
|
|
her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore...
|
|
|
|
"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
|
|
pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."
|
|
|
|
"On my word, Mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and
|
|
don't know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly
|
|
that they believed her. "If I had taken part in it I'd have done it
|
|
better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think
|
|
you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she
|
|
added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
|
|
|
|
"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in
|
|
her hand.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
|
|
|
|
"Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and
|
|
be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him." And Jo made for the
|
|
door again.
|
|
|
|
"Hush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
|
|
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg,
|
|
yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.
|
|
|
|
"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew
|
|
anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at
|
|
first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr.
|
|
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a
|
|
few days. I'm so silly that I liked to 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, I'm paid for my silliness now. I
|
|
never can look him in the face again."
|
|
|
|
"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.
|
|
|
|
"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn't
|
|
wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very
|
|
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,
|
|
for a long while."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
|
|
exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who
|
|
was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"
|
|
|
|
"He writes in a 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. It's very kind and respectful,
|
|
but think how dreadful for me!"
|
|
|
|
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, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these
|
|
letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with
|
|
because I wouldn't tell him my secret."
|
|
|
|
"Don't have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of
|
|
trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly.
|
|
|
|
"Bless you, child! Mother told me."
|
|
|
|
"That will do, Jo. I'll 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."
|
|
|
|
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings.
|
|
"Now, 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?"
|
|
|
|
"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do
|
|
with lovers for a long while, perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly.
|
|
"If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and
|
|
make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued
|
|
and made a fool of. It's a shame!"
|
|
|
|
Seeing Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by
|
|
this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire
|
|
silence and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's 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
|
|
wouldn't come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and
|
|
stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
|
|
Jo was dismissed, but chose to 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan't drag it out of
|
|
me, so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
|
|
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
|
|
|
|
"I'll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn't think
|
|
you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide
|
|
her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
|
|
|
|
"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for
|
|
a month, but you will, though, won't you?" And Laurie folded his hands
|
|
together with such and imploring gesture, as he 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. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her
|
|
efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone
|
|
for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm
|
|
before the injured damsel.
|
|
|
|
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
|
|
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
|
|
disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed
|
|
no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till
|
|
the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked
|
|
off without a word.
|
|
|
|
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and
|
|
when Meg and her mother went 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.
|
|
|
|
"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming
|
|
downstairs.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Miss, but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."
|
|
|
|
"Why not? Is he ill?"
|
|
|
|
"La, no Miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of
|
|
his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
|
|
dursn't go nigh him."
|
|
|
|
"Where is Laurie?"
|
|
|
|
"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping.
|
|
I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and
|
|
there's no one to eat it."
|
|
|
|
"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."
|
|
|
|
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.
|
|
|
|
"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young
|
|
gentleman in a threatening tone.
|
|
|
|
Jo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced
|
|
before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really
|
|
was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite
|
|
expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,
|
|
"Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't
|
|
go away till I have."
|
|
|
|
"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
|
|
reply to her petition.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
|
|
exactly easy in your mind."
|
|
|
|
"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
|
|
|
|
"Who did it?" demanded Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I'd have..." And the injured
|
|
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
|
|
|
|
"That's nothing. I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
|
|
soothingly.
|
|
|
|
"Pooh! You're a girl, and it's fun, but I'll allow no man to shake me!"
|
|
|
|
"I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like
|
|
a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"
|
|
|
|
"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
|
|
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."
|
|
|
|
"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"
|
|
|
|
"No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
|
|
truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without
|
|
bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the
|
|
scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I
|
|
should forget myself."
|
|
|
|
"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I'll
|
|
help you."
|
|
|
|
"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by
|
|
everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and
|
|
begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the
|
|
wrong."
|
|
|
|
"He didn't know that."
|
|
|
|
"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use,
|
|
Jo, he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't
|
|
need anyone's apron string to hold on by."
|
|
|
|
"What pepper pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this
|
|
affair?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell
|
|
him what the fuss's about."
|
|
|
|
"Bless you! He won't do that."
|
|
|
|
"I won't go down till he does."
|
|
|
|
"Now, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and I'll explain what I can.
|
|
You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't intend to stay here long, anyway. I'll slip off and take a
|
|
journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
|
|
enough."
|
|
|
|
"I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him."
|
|
|
|
"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke. It's gay there,
|
|
and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles."
|
|
|
|
"What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting
|
|
her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
|
|
|
|
"Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll
|
|
stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let's do it, Jo.
|
|
We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
|
|
I've got money enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to
|
|
your father."
|
|
|
|
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was,
|
|
it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for
|
|
change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel
|
|
charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. 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.
|
|
|
|
"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time, but
|
|
as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Don't tempt
|
|
me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan."
|
|
|
|
"That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him
|
|
and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
|
|
|
|
"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms'
|
|
are my doom, and I 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."
|
|
|
|
"I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had
|
|
more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly.
|
|
|
|
"Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go
|
|
making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the
|
|
shaking, will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but
|
|
felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
|
|
|
|
"If I can manage the young one, I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she
|
|
walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head
|
|
propped up on both hands.
|
|
|
|
"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as
|
|
Jo tapped at his door.
|
|
|
|
"It's only me, Sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she
|
|
entered.
|
|
|
|
"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but
|
|
trying not to show it.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second
|
|
volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second
|
|
dose of Boswell's Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work.
|
|
|
|
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the
|
|
shelf where the Johnsonian 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.
|
|
|
|
"What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has
|
|
been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a
|
|
word from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he
|
|
bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room."
|
|
|
|
"He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word
|
|
to anyone," began Jo reluctantly.
|
|
|
|
"That won't do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you
|
|
softhearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg
|
|
pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I won't be kept in the dark."
|
|
|
|
Mr. Laurence looked so 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.
|
|
|
|
"Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed,
|
|
asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to
|
|
shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you
|
|
interfere. Please don't. It was partly my fault, but it's all right
|
|
now. So let's forget it, and talk about the _Rambler_ or something
|
|
pleasant."
|
|
|
|
"Hang the _Rambler!_ Come down and give me your word that this
|
|
harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or
|
|
impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash
|
|
him with my own hands."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and
|
|
not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow and hard
|
|
to manage," 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.
|
|
|
|
"So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and
|
|
all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for
|
|
her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into
|
|
another.
|
|
|
|
"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a
|
|
trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?"
|
|
|
|
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid,
|
|
though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief
|
|
and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the
|
|
table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, "You're right, girl, I am!
|
|
I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how
|
|
it will end, if we go on so."
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the
|
|
minute it was made. She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear
|
|
much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Laurence's 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 Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and
|
|
married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered
|
|
and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
|
|
|
|
"He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it
|
|
sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like
|
|
to, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may
|
|
advertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for India."
|
|
|
|
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently
|
|
taking the whole as a joke.
|
|
|
|
"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for
|
|
me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What
|
|
torments they are, yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her
|
|
cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell
|
|
him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his
|
|
grandfather. I won't bear it."
|
|
|
|
"He won't come, Sir. He feels badly because you didn't believe him
|
|
when he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings
|
|
very much."
|
|
|
|
Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began
|
|
to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
|
|
|
|
"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I
|
|
suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old
|
|
gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
|
|
|
|
"If I were you, I'd write him an apology, Sir. He says he won't come
|
|
down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an
|
|
absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and
|
|
bring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes fun, and this way is
|
|
better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."
|
|
|
|
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying
|
|
slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and
|
|
Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this
|
|
nonsense."
|
|
|
|
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to
|
|
another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top
|
|
of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under
|
|
Laurie's 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, "What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he
|
|
added, laughing.
|
|
|
|
"No, he was pretty mild, on the whole."
|
|
|
|
"Ah! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt
|
|
just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.
|
|
|
|
"Don't talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my
|
|
son."
|
|
|
|
"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil
|
|
my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an
|
|
end," he said dolefully.
|
|
|
|
"Go and eat your dinner, you'll feel better after it. Men always croak
|
|
when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.
|
|
|
|
"That's a 'label' on my 'sect'," answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he
|
|
went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was
|
|
quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly 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
|
|
sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the
|
|
words, 'Mrs. John Brooke', whereat she groaned tragically and cast it
|
|
into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day
|
|
for her.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
|
|
|
|
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 doll's 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 'the dear',
|
|
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 'felt in her bones' 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 mother's
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
|
|
And flowers for her nose.
|
|
Here's music for her pianee,
|
|
An afghan for her toes,
|
|
|
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A portrait of Joanna, see,
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By Raphael No. 2,
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Who laboured with great industry
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To make it fair and true.
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Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
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For Madam Purrer's tail,
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And ice cream made by lovely Peg,
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A Mont Blanc in a pail.
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Their dearest love my makers laid
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Within my breast of snow.
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Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
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From Laurie and from Jo.
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How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring
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in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented
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them.
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"I'm so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn't
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hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo
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carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to
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refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the 'Jungfrau' had
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sent her.
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"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the
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long-desired _Undine and Sintram_.
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"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the
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Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.
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"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first
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silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. "How can I be
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otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her
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husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand carressed the
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brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the
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girls had just fastened on her breast.
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Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the
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delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour
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after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one
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drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his
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head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault
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and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed
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excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped
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up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another
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Christmas present for the March family."
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Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away
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somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes,
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leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and
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couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several
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minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things
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were done, and no one said a word.
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Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms.
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Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by
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Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake,
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as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled
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over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her
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father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first
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to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush!
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Remember Beth."
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But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper
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appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and
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Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened
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just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the
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bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.
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It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight
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again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat
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turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the
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kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke
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for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly
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remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he
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precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,
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which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.
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Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the
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fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage
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of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most
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estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just
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there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire,
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looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you
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to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked,
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rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something to eat. Jo saw
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and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and
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beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, "I hate
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estimable young men with brown eyes!"
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There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat
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turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed,
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browned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one's
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mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a
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honeypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said,
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"For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't
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roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin'
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of it in a cloth."
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Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom
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Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy chairs
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stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her
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father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank
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healths, told stories, sang songs, 'reminisced', as the old folks say,
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and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the
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girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and
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as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
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"Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected
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to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had
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followed a long conversation about many things.
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"Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire,
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and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
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"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light
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shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.
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"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who
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sat on her father's knee.
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"Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially
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the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the
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burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March,
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looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered
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round him.
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"How do you know? Did Mother tell you?" asked Jo.
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"Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several
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discoveries today."
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"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.
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"Here is one." And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his
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chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and
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two or three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when
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this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so.
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It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this
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seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been
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made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than
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blisters, and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will
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last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my
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dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white
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hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good,
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industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it
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away."
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If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it
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in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he
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gave her.
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"What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard
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and been so very, very good to me," said Beth in her father's ear.
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He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an
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unusually mild expression in her face.
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"In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a
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year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar
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straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang,
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nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and
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pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for
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it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn't bounce, but
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moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly
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way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a
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strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite
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satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep,
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but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful
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enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent
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me."
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Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew
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rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise, feeling that
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she did deserve a portion of it.
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"Now, Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
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"There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will
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slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,"
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began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost
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her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his
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own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."
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After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket
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at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair...
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"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her
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mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on
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every one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does
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not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very
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pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to
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think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try
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and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay
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figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a
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graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable
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daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."
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"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her
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father and told about her ring.
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"I read in _Pilgrim's Progress_ today how, after many troubles,
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Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies
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bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now,
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before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth, adding, as
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she slipped out of her father's arms and went to the instrument, "It's
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singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to sing
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the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the
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music for Father, because he likes the verses."
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So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and
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in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her
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own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song
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for her.
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He that is down need fear no fall,
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He that is low no pride.
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He that is humble ever shall
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Have God to be his guide.
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I am content with what I have,
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Little be it, or much.
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And, Lord! Contentment still I crave,
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Because Thou savest such.
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Fulness to them a burden is,
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That go on pilgrimage.
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Here little, and hereafter bliss,
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Is best from age to age!
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION
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Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered
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about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait
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upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed
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by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with
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the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then
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'to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their
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happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it,
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though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one
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another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had
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sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's
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umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg was absent-minded, shy,
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and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name
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was mentioned. Amy said, "Everyone seemed waiting for something, and
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couldn't settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,"
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and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as
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usual.
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Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed
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suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one
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knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands
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imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave
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himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief,
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and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
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"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to look
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unconscious.
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"He's showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isn't
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it?" answered Jo scornfully.
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"Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice lingered
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over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't
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plague me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and there
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isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as
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before."
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"We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has
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spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like
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your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean
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to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all
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settled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and
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have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.
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"I can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because Father said
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I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little
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smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on
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that point.
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"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or
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blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided
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no."
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"I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should
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say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares. There's
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no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared."
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Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
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unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color
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varying in her cheeks.
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"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully.
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"Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confident,
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and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own
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affairs of this sort."
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"Don't mean to have any. It's fun to watch other people philander, but
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I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at
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the thought.
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"I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you." Meg
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spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often
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seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
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"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo,
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rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
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"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr.
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Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young
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to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let
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us be friends as we were.'"
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"Hum, that's stiff and cool enough! I don't believe you'll ever say
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it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the
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rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his
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feelings."
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"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk
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out of the room with dignity."
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Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified
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exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to
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sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam
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in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when
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someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was
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anything but hospitable.
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"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your
|
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father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused
|
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as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.
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"It's very well, he's in the rack. I'll get him, and tell it you are
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here." And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in
|
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her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her
|
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speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to
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sidle toward the door, murmuring...
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"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."
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"Don't go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so
|
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hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She
|
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blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called
|
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her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and
|
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sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at
|
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her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said
|
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gratefully...
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"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish
|
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I could thank you for it."
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"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast
|
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in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown
|
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eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away
|
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and to stop and listen.
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"Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her
|
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hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
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"I won't trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little,
|
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Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
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This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make
|
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it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't
|
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know," so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish
|
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little reply.
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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
|
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his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know
|
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so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I
|
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am to have my reward in the end or not."
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"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet
|
|
rather enjoying it.
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"I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
|
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Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"
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"Not if I chose to learn it, but. . ."
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"Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than
|
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German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that
|
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she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.
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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
|
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satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled
|
|
her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind,
|
|
and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little
|
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women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt
|
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excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a
|
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capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I
|
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don't choose. Please go away and let me be!"
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Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling
|
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about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it
|
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rather bewildered him.
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"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she
|
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walked away.
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"Yes, I do. I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says
|
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I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not."
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"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait and say
|
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nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I
|
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didn't think that of you."
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"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking
|
|
a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.
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He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel
|
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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
|
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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.
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The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had
|
|
met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival,
|
|
drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back
|
|
part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to
|
|
surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started
|
|
as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
|
|
|
|
"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane
|
|
as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.
|
|
|
|
"It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg,
|
|
feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
|
|
|
|
"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is
|
|
Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief
|
|
going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.
|
|
|
|
"We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg,
|
|
wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.
|
|
|
|
"Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about
|
|
it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father's letters,
|
|
and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?"
|
|
cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
|
|
|
|
"Hush! He'll hear. Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much troubled.
|
|
|
|
"Not yet. I've 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," 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 couldn't 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.
|
|
|
|
"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money
|
|
to anyone you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.
|
|
|
|
"Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You'll be
|
|
sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a cottage and found
|
|
it a failure."
|
|
|
|
"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted
|
|
Meg.
|
|
|
|
Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did
|
|
not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so
|
|
brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to
|
|
love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and
|
|
after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she
|
|
could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it
|
|
kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake
|
|
at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It's
|
|
your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you."
|
|
|
|
"Father and Mother don't think so. They like John though he is poor."
|
|
|
|
"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of
|
|
babies."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.
|
|
|
|
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is
|
|
poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
|
|
|
|
"No, but he has many warm friends."
|
|
|
|
"You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll grow. He
|
|
hasn't any business, has he?"
|
|
|
|
"Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him."
|
|
|
|
"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and
|
|
not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money,
|
|
position, or business, and go on 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."
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise,
|
|
he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work and sure to get on, he's
|
|
so energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I'm proud
|
|
to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said
|
|
Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
|
|
|
|
"He knows you have got rich relations, child. That's the secret of his
|
|
liking, I suspect."
|
|
|
|
"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such
|
|
meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg
|
|
indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's
|
|
suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than I would.
|
|
We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being
|
|
poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him
|
|
because he loves me, and I..."
|
|
|
|
Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up
|
|
her mind, that she had told 'her John' 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 girl's happy young
|
|
face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child,
|
|
and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't
|
|
stop. I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father
|
|
now. Don't expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr.
|
|
Brooke's friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever."
|
|
|
|
And slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high
|
|
dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her, for when
|
|
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, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg.
|
|
Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care
|
|
for me a little bit."
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg.
|
|
|
|
"And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?"
|
|
|
|
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the
|
|
stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced
|
|
herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and
|
|
hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
|
|
|
|
Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
|
|
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound
|
|
within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to
|
|
herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is
|
|
settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."
|
|
|
|
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 'that man', as
|
|
Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the
|
|
astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!"
|
|
|
|
That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and
|
|
making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a
|
|
word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming
|
|
tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down quick!
|
|
John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"
|
|
|
|
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon
|
|
the 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 hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy
|
|
was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth
|
|
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
|
|
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly
|
|
evident Aunt March was right in calling them as 'unworldly as a pair of
|
|
babies'. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old
|
|
room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the
|
|
family began there.
|
|
|
|
"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said
|
|
Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she
|
|
was planning to make.
|
|
|
|
"No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It
|
|
seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far
|
|
above such common things as bread and butter.
|
|
|
|
"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the
|
|
changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes,
|
|
now and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it
|
|
ends well, after all."
|
|
|
|
"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to
|
|
see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few
|
|
persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or
|
|
lessened in any way.
|
|
|
|
"I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if
|
|
I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if
|
|
everything had become possible to him now.
|
|
|
|
"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for
|
|
the wedding.
|
|
|
|
"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short
|
|
time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen
|
|
there before.
|
|
|
|
"You have only to wait, I am to do the work," said John beginning his
|
|
labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo
|
|
to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the
|
|
front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible
|
|
conversation."
|
|
|
|
But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good
|
|
spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for 'Mrs. John Brooke',
|
|
and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had
|
|
been brought about by his excellent management.
|
|
|
|
"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when
|
|
he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done though the sky
|
|
falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his
|
|
congratulations.
|
|
|
|
"Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for
|
|
the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr.
|
|
Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.
|
|
|
|
"I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo's face
|
|
alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don't look
|
|
festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a
|
|
corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.
|
|
|
|
"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and
|
|
shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know
|
|
how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued with a little
|
|
quiver in her voice.
|
|
|
|
"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly.
|
|
|
|
"It can never be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed
|
|
Jo.
|
|
|
|
"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know, but I'll stand
|
|
by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!" and Laurie
|
|
meant what he said.
|
|
|
|
"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged. You are always a great
|
|
comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right you
|
|
see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately,
|
|
Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her
|
|
own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I
|
|
shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad on some
|
|
nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"
|
|
|
|
"I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen in
|
|
three years," said Jo thoughtfully.
|
|
|
|
"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward and see
|
|
where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so
|
|
happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's 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_.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
LITTLE WOMEN PART 2
|
|
|
|
In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
|
|
|
|
GOSSIP
|
|
|
|
In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's 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 'lovering' in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the
|
|
young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March,
|
|
"What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a
|
|
dashing young neighbor over the way?"
|
|
|
|
The three years that have 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 'brother', 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 'they wouldn't pay'.
|
|
|
|
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 mother's keeping, their souls
|
|
into their father's, 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 Meg's affairs that the
|
|
hospitals and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows,
|
|
decidedly miss the motherly missionary's 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. Laurence's 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
|
|
couldn't 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 Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest,
|
|
happiest girl in Christendom.
|
|
|
|
Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
|
|
Amy that she bribed her with 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, everyone's 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
|
|
'rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun
|
|
her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy
|
|
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a
|
|
slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to
|
|
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 'a glorious human boy', 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 'men of my class',
|
|
were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits
|
|
of 'our fellows', 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 Amy's shrine. And speaking
|
|
of sentiment brings us very naturally to the 'Dovecote'.
|
|
|
|
That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for
|
|
Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly
|
|
appropriate to the gentle lovers who 'went on together like a pair of
|
|
turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'. It was a tiny house,
|
|
with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket
|
|
handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
|
|
shrubbery, 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 don't 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 Amy's
|
|
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 Meg's 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 'Mis. Brooke came
|
|
home'. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a
|
|
supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to
|
|
last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different
|
|
kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.
|
|
|
|
People who hire all these 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 Laurie's 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 one's 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
|
|
'Mr. Toodles'. 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 Amy's arranging different colored
|
|
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the
|
|
table for the first meal.
|
|
|
|
"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
|
|
should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
|
|
through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling
|
|
together more tenderly than ever.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that
|
|
I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better than words.
|
|
|
|
"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," 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.
|
|
|
|
"Mother 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," answered Meg tranquilly.
|
|
|
|
"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.
|
|
|
|
"If Meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
|
|
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
|
|
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.
|
|
|
|
"Sallie isn't a poor man's 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. It's 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."
|
|
|
|
"Why didn't 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," said Meg.
|
|
|
|
"I did after a while, not to 'mess' but to learn of Hannah how things
|
|
should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play
|
|
then, but there came a time when I was 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."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to
|
|
the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all
|
|
absorbing subject of house keeping. "Do you know I like this room most
|
|
of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
|
|
upstairs and she looked into her well-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
|
|
'that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was
|
|
rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her
|
|
repent her vow. She never 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, Florence's 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.
|
|
|
|
"That's 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," said Mrs. March, patting the
|
|
damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their
|
|
fineness.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me
|
|
all my days, Hannah says." And Meg looked quite contented, as well she
|
|
might.
|
|
|
|
A tall, broad-shouldered 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...
|
|
|
|
"Here I am, Mother! Yes, it's all right."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
|
|
compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are,
|
|
Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."
|
|
|
|
As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled
|
|
Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an
|
|
attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and
|
|
everyone began to talk.
|
|
|
|
"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.
|
|
|
|
"Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."
|
|
|
|
"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in
|
|
feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
|
|
|
|
"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."
|
|
|
|
"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile.
|
|
|
|
"More cruel than ever. Don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie
|
|
gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.
|
|
|
|
"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying
|
|
the knobby parcel with curiosity.
|
|
|
|
"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
|
|
observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of
|
|
the girls.
|
|
|
|
"Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just
|
|
swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood
|
|
in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of
|
|
its powers that made them cover up their ears.
|
|
|
|
"There's gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to
|
|
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from
|
|
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
|
|
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
|
|
like a remarkably plummy one."
|
|
|
|
"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a matronly
|
|
tone.
|
|
|
|
"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as
|
|
six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded
|
|
the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little
|
|
chandelier.
|
|
|
|
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this
|
|
spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
|
|
adjournment," he added presently.
|
|
|
|
"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things
|
|
to settle," said Meg, bustling away.
|
|
|
|
"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
|
|
tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
|
|
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
|
|
|
|
"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I
|
|
can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you
|
|
do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
|
|
aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his
|
|
feeble steps.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow," began Jo,
|
|
as they strolled away together. "You must promise to behave well, and
|
|
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
|
|
|
|
"Not a prank."
|
|
|
|
"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
|
|
|
|
"I never do. You are the one for that."
|
|
|
|
"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall
|
|
certainly laugh if you do."
|
|
|
|
"You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round
|
|
you will obscure the prospect."
|
|
|
|
"I never cry unless for some great affliction."
|
|
|
|
"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with suggestive
|
|
laugh.
|
|
|
|
"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."
|
|
|
|
"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?"
|
|
|
|
"Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take
|
|
it?" asked Jo rather sharply.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say 'All
|
|
right', if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't."
|
|
|
|
"Then don't go and be suspicious. I only want some money," said
|
|
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
|
|
|
|
"You spend a great deal, Teddy."
|
|
|
|
"Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone
|
|
before I know it."
|
|
|
|
"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
|
|
can't say 'No' to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for
|
|
him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
|
|
said Jo warmly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn't 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?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
|
|
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I
|
|
thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it
|
|
breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion 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, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I
|
|
don't get any satisfaction out of it."
|
|
|
|
Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack,
|
|
that the felt hat fell off, and Jo 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.
|
|
|
|
"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all
|
|
through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get
|
|
myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my
|
|
friends."
|
|
|
|
"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not
|
|
aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks
|
|
like a young prize fighter," observed Jo severely.
|
|
|
|
"This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it,"
|
|
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having
|
|
voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
|
|
quarter-inch-long stubble.
|
|
|
|
"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
|
|
about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about
|
|
in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the
|
|
bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone,
|
|
after a minute's silence.
|
|
|
|
"Of course he had. We don't want any more marrying in this family for
|
|
years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?" and Jo
|
|
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in
|
|
their teens.
|
|
|
|
"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You
|
|
are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
|
|
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
|
|
times.
|
|
|
|
"Don't be alarmed. I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will
|
|
want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
|
|
family."
|
|
|
|
"You won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance
|
|
and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. "You won't
|
|
show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it
|
|
by accident and can't help 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."
|
|
|
|
"I don't like that sort of thing. I'm too busy to be worried with
|
|
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
|
|
say any more about it. Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we
|
|
talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get
|
|
cross, so let's change the subject;" 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, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
|
|
|
|
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. "I don't want a fashionable
|
|
wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to
|
|
look and be my familiar self."
|
|
|
|
So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes
|
|
and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her
|
|
pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the
|
|
valley, which 'her John' liked best of all the flowers that grew.
|
|
|
|
"You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely
|
|
that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy,
|
|
surveying her with delight when all was done.
|
|
|
|
"Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don't
|
|
mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
|
|
today," and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her
|
|
with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not
|
|
changed the old.
|
|
|
|
"Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few
|
|
minutes with Father quietly in the study," and Meg ran down to perform
|
|
these little ceremonies, and 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.
|
|
|
|
Jo's 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 'being better soon'.
|
|
|
|
Amy is with truth considered 'the flower of the family', for at sixteen
|
|
she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but
|
|
possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the
|
|
lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her
|
|
dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as
|
|
attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her,
|
|
for it never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and
|
|
having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her
|
|
whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her
|
|
wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking
|
|
the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her
|
|
lavender moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the
|
|
last minute, child."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
|
|
criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
|
|
care what anyone says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
|
|
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer." And away
|
|
went Meg to help 'that man' in his highly improper employment.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Brooke didn't even say, "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
|
|
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door,
|
|
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with
|
|
a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
|
|
|
|
A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous
|
|
exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a
|
|
momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins
|
|
arrived, and 'the party came in', as Beth used to say when a child.
|
|
|
|
"Don't let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than
|
|
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and
|
|
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.
|
|
|
|
"He has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant
|
|
if he likes," returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware
|
|
of the dragon, which warning 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 bridegroom's hand trembled
|
|
visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in
|
|
her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her
|
|
own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced and Aunt March
|
|
sniffed 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 mother's shoulder,
|
|
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
|
|
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
|
|
|
|
It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly
|
|
married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" 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, "Bless you, deary, a
|
|
hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks
|
|
lovely."
|
|
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
|
|
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this
|
|
morning?"
|
|
|
|
"No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
|
|
actually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and
|
|
dispatched the rest to the Soldier's 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."
|
|
|
|
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, "I like that! For I've seen enough harm done to wish other women
|
|
would think as you do."
|
|
|
|
"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious
|
|
accent in Meg's voice.
|
|
|
|
"No. I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either,
|
|
this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as
|
|
common as water and almost as harmless, I don't care for it, but when a
|
|
pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."
|
|
|
|
"But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
|
|
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
|
|
day of my life."
|
|
|
|
A demand so sudden and so 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 friend's good. She did not speak,
|
|
but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness,
|
|
and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything today."
|
|
|
|
Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her
|
|
his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"
|
|
|
|
"I thank you, very, very much."
|
|
|
|
"And I drink 'long life to your resolution', Teddy," cried Jo,
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband
|
|
and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in
|
|
couples outside!" cried 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
|
|
moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into
|
|
the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March, for
|
|
when the stately old gentleman 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.
|
|
|
|
"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think you'll
|
|
be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as
|
|
he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that
|
|
you deserve it."
|
|
|
|
"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I
|
|
don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs.
|
|
Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.
|
|
|
|
"Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get
|
|
one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
|
|
satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to
|
|
rest after the excitement of the morning.
|
|
|
|
"I'll do my best to gratify you, Sir," was Laurie's 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
|
|
'good-by', as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.
|
|
|
|
"Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love
|
|
you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her
|
|
mother, with full eyes for a moment. "I shall come every day, Father,
|
|
and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am
|
|
married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls
|
|
will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank
|
|
you all for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by!"
|
|
|
|
They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
|
|
pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands
|
|
full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face--and
|
|
so Meg's married life began.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
|
|
|
|
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 'mud-pie' 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. Raphael's face was found
|
|
boldly executed on the underside of the moulding board, and Bacchus on
|
|
the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
|
|
sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied
|
|
kindling for some time.
|
|
|
|
From fire to oil was a 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 sailor's shirt or a
|
|
king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
|
|
|
|
Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row,
|
|
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened
|
|
into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good,
|
|
and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were
|
|
pronounced 'wonderfully fine'. A return to clay and plaster followed,
|
|
and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or
|
|
tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed
|
|
in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings
|
|
caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her
|
|
efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an
|
|
untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her
|
|
for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family
|
|
were one 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 'a delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one
|
|
mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or 'a heavenly mass of clouds',
|
|
that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She
|
|
sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to
|
|
study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after
|
|
'points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performance is
|
|
called.
|
|
|
|
If 'genius is eternal patience', as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some
|
|
claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all
|
|
obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time
|
|
she should do something worthy to be called 'high art'.
|
|
|
|
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, "If Amy
|
|
went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what
|
|
to do."
|
|
|
|
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in 'our best society',
|
|
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,
|
|
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.
|
|
|
|
"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine
|
|
lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
|
|
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
|
|
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.
|
|
|
|
"I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in with an
|
|
important air one day.
|
|
|
|
"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the
|
|
stately young lady still remained 'the baby'.
|
|
|
|
"Our 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."
|
|
|
|
"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls
|
|
called her 'Maria Theresa air'.
|
|
|
|
"You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly
|
|
everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your
|
|
chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a
|
|
swan, you know." 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,
|
|
"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
|
|
|
|
"I 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."
|
|
|
|
"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
|
|
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate
|
|
and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want
|
|
my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living."
|
|
|
|
"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look
|
|
sober.
|
|
|
|
"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."
|
|
|
|
"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
|
|
about."
|
|
|
|
"Why, 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.
|
|
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of char-a-banc.)
|
|
|
|
"All of this will be expensive, Amy."
|
|
|
|
"Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things,
|
|
and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan
|
|
would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much
|
|
better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and
|
|
attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
|
|
|
|
"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know
|
|
that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help
|
|
a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,"
|
|
said Amy, with the decision which 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.
|
|
|
|
"Very 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, I'll
|
|
say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you
|
|
decide, I'll do my best to help you."
|
|
|
|
"Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind." and away went Amy to lay her
|
|
plan before her sisters.
|
|
|
|
Meg agreed at once, and promised 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.
|
|
|
|
"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
|
|
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
|
|
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to
|
|
truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and
|
|
rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of
|
|
her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
|
|
|
|
"I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
|
|
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions
|
|
arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great
|
|
deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you
|
|
call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to
|
|
go into good society, and cultivate your manners 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. That's not my way."
|
|
|
|
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. Amy's definition of Jo's 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 'a nonsensical business'.
|
|
|
|
The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following
|
|
Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor
|
|
because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the
|
|
washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well
|
|
anywheres". This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had
|
|
a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was 'Nil
|
|
desperandum', and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to
|
|
do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking
|
|
didn't turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and
|
|
the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more
|
|
than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which
|
|
seemed trifling at the 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 didn't make up its mind till it was too late for
|
|
anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out
|
|
of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got
|
|
in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but
|
|
without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the
|
|
best of 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 'cherry bounce' 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.
|
|
|
|
"No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must
|
|
fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
|
|
morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had
|
|
said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting
|
|
a little stale.
|
|
|
|
"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today,"
|
|
said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of
|
|
placid despair.
|
|
|
|
"Use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised
|
|
his wife.
|
|
|
|
"Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at
|
|
it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of
|
|
cats.
|
|
|
|
"Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
|
|
decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity
|
|
of a martyr.
|
|
|
|
"You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to
|
|
try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to
|
|
fail.
|
|
|
|
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, 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,
|
|
"Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's
|
|
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 man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
|
|
|
|
They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by
|
|
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting
|
|
away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In
|
|
stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh horror!--the
|
|
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the
|
|
highborn eyes of a Tudor!
|
|
|
|
"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" 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.
|
|
|
|
"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as
|
|
red as her fish.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
|
|
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, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad
|
|
he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat
|
|
it?"
|
|
|
|
Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind
|
|
were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of
|
|
pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies'
|
|
diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
|
|
|
|
"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see
|
|
them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
|
|
|
|
She did not mention this 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
|
|
o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were
|
|
interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of
|
|
yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the
|
|
'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests
|
|
to the banquet.
|
|
|
|
"There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet
|
|
them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good
|
|
time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the
|
|
word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable
|
|
expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one
|
|
young lady.
|
|
|
|
"Run, 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,"
|
|
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
|
|
'the party went out'.
|
|
|
|
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 Jo's mouth.
|
|
|
|
"You've had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother,
|
|
as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
|
|
|
|
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
|
|
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
|
|
|
|
"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
|
|
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked
|
|
Meg soberly.
|
|
|
|
"Take it all. I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it
|
|
will mold before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a
|
|
sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
|
|
|
|
"It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down
|
|
to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
|
|
|
|
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the
|
|
whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
|
|
"salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn..."
|
|
Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the 'history of salads',
|
|
to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
|
|
|
|
"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans
|
|
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you
|
|
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy,
|
|
wiping her eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about
|
|
in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big
|
|
nutshell, and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed
|
|
Jo, quite spent with laughter.
|
|
|
|
"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to
|
|
satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
|
|
|
|
"I am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault
|
|
that it failed. I comfort myself with that," said Amy with a little
|
|
quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and
|
|
I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at
|
|
least."
|
|
|
|
No one did for several months, but the word 'fete' always produced a
|
|
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
|
|
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
|
|
|
|
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 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing
|
|
away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was
|
|
finished she could find no peace. Her 'scribbling suit' 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, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They
|
|
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
|
|
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive
|
|
article of dress was 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 devine afflatus usually
|
|
lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her 'vortex', 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 People's Course, the
|
|
lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a
|
|
subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some 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 Women's Rights and making tatting.
|
|
Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the
|
|
hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an
|
|
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, "want to read it? That's a first-rate story."
|
|
|
|
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for
|
|
lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
|
|
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light
|
|
literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's
|
|
invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
|
|
dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
|
|
|
|
"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
|
|
paragraph of her portion.
|
|
|
|
"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo,
|
|
amused at his admiration of the trash.
|
|
|
|
"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
|
|
living out of such stories, they say." and he pointed to the name of
|
|
Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
|
|
|
|
"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
|
|
|
|
"No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
|
|
office where this paper is printed."
|
|
|
|
"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo
|
|
looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled
|
|
exclamation points that adorned the page.
|
|
|
|
"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well
|
|
for writing it."
|
|
|
|
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while
|
|
Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
|
|
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
|
|
and 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
|
|
'genius took to burning'. Jo had never tried this style before,
|
|
contenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_. Her
|
|
experience and miscellaneous reading were of 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 didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect,
|
|
she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
|
|
|
|
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to
|
|
keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all
|
|
hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which
|
|
almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred
|
|
dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
|
|
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the
|
|
amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what
|
|
intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would
|
|
devote his leisure hours, 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...
|
|
|
|
"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind
|
|
the money."
|
|
|
|
"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such
|
|
a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
|
|
reverential eye.
|
|
|
|
"Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo
|
|
promptly.
|
|
|
|
To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn't
|
|
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 'rubbish' turned into comforts
|
|
for them all. The Duke's Daughter paid the butcher's 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.
|
|
|
|
"Now 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," said Jo, calling a family council.
|
|
|
|
"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,
|
|
and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
|
|
father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited
|
|
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no
|
|
haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.
|
|
|
|
"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by
|
|
waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work,
|
|
for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her
|
|
to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame
|
|
of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it. I've been fussing
|
|
over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or
|
|
indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons
|
|
take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't leave a word out of it. You'll spoil it if you do, for the
|
|
interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the
|
|
people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on,"
|
|
said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable
|
|
novel ever written.
|
|
|
|
"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and
|
|
dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interrupted Jo,
|
|
turning to the publisher's note.
|
|
|
|
"Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a
|
|
good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when
|
|
you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical
|
|
and metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly
|
|
practical view of the subject.
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and
|
|
metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things,
|
|
except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise
|
|
ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now,
|
|
Beth, what do you say?"
|
|
|
|
"I should so like to see it printed soon," 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 Jo's heart for a minute with a forboding fear,
|
|
and decided her to make her little venture 'soon'.
|
|
|
|
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 everyone's advice, and like the old man and
|
|
his donkey in the fable suited nobody.
|
|
|
|
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
|
|
into it, so that was 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.
|
|
|
|
"You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when
|
|
it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a
|
|
promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo,
|
|
turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with
|
|
pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. "This man says,
|
|
'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.' 'All is
|
|
sweet, pure, and healthy.'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The
|
|
next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies,
|
|
spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no
|
|
theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied my
|
|
characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right.
|
|
Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared
|
|
for years.' (I know better than that), and the next asserts that
|
|
'Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is
|
|
a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some 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 I'd printed the whole
|
|
or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
|
|
|
|
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally.
|
|
Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so
|
|
well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
|
|
whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an
|
|
author's best education, and when the first soreness was over, she
|
|
could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel
|
|
herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
|
|
|
|
"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly,
|
|
"and I've 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
|
|
'charmingly natural, tender, and true'. So I'll comfort myself with
|
|
that, and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
|
|
|
|
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 couldn't
|
|
live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though
|
|
she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg
|
|
miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband
|
|
followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send some veal
|
|
or mutton for dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a
|
|
glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt
|
|
that it was a change for the better. At first they played keep-house,
|
|
and frolicked over it like children. Then John took steadily to
|
|
business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders,
|
|
and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to
|
|
work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.
|
|
|
|
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's
|
|
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
|
|
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her 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 a with 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 'my wife' 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 hadn't 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 wouldn't 'jell'.
|
|
|
|
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand,
|
|
but John and she had agreed that 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 o'clock sat down in her
|
|
topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and
|
|
wept.
|
|
|
|
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, "My
|
|
husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he
|
|
likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no
|
|
scolding, no 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."
|
|
|
|
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 yesterday's mud still adorned the steps.
|
|
The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty
|
|
wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in
|
|
her 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.
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while
|
|
I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
|
|
|
|
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and
|
|
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
|
|
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could 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.
|
|
|
|
"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" 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.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at
|
|
it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!" and the
|
|
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
|
|
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
|
|
at the same time as the floor.
|
|
|
|
"What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked the
|
|
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was
|
|
all askew.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.
|
|
|
|
"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry. I can bear anything better than
|
|
that. Out with it, love."
|
|
|
|
"The... The jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"
|
|
|
|
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the
|
|
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which
|
|
put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.
|
|
|
|
"Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don't bother any more
|
|
about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven's sake
|
|
don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
|
|
and..."
|
|
|
|
John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
|
|
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of
|
|
mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...
|
|
|
|
"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you
|
|
do such a thing?"
|
|
|
|
"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't
|
|
be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
|
|
|
|
"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
|
|
have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly, for even
|
|
turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for
|
|
I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you
|
|
have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and
|
|
hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.
|
|
|
|
"I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can't see him, and there
|
|
isn't any dinner."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and
|
|
the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.
|
|
|
|
"I hadn't time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother's. I'm
|
|
sorry, but I was so busy," and Meg's tears began again.
|
|
|
|
John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to
|
|
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
|
|
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
|
|
manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would
|
|
have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
|
|
|
|
"It's a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull
|
|
through and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert
|
|
yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We're both as hungry
|
|
as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and
|
|
bread and cheese. We won't ask for jelly."
|
|
|
|
He meant it to be a good-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.
|
|
|
|
"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I'm too used up
|
|
to 'exert' myself for anyone. It's like a man to propose a bone and
|
|
vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort
|
|
in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother's, and tell him I'm away,
|
|
sick, dead, anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and
|
|
my jelly as much as you like. You won't have anything else here." 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 'up to Mother's', 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
|
|
"a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the
|
|
sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
|
|
|
|
Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own
|
|
short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
|
|
should know it," restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she
|
|
dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be
|
|
forgiven.
|
|
|
|
Unfortunately, John didn't 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. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to
|
|
bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you
|
|
at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to
|
|
be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! And Meg must know
|
|
it."
|
|
|
|
He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over
|
|
and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over
|
|
him. "Poor little thing! It was hard upon her when she tried so
|
|
heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was
|
|
young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone
|
|
home--he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled
|
|
again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry
|
|
herself sick softened 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 'calm and kind, but firm', and show him his
|
|
duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and
|
|
comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of
|
|
the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally,
|
|
as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of 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, "We are going to have a new moon, my dear."
|
|
|
|
"I've no objection," was Meg's 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 'calm and firm', and both felt desperately
|
|
uncomfortable.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need
|
|
infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says." The word 'Mother'
|
|
suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with
|
|
unbelieving protests.
|
|
|
|
"John is a good man, 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 truth--a good trait,
|
|
though you call him 'fussy'. 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 ours--one flash and then all over--but 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."
|
|
|
|
These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
|
|
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own
|
|
hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her
|
|
own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to
|
|
such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in
|
|
her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up,
|
|
thinking, "I will be the first to say, 'Forgive me'", but he did not
|
|
seem to hear her. She went very slowly 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 couldn't do it, then came the thought,
|
|
"This is the beginning. I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach
|
|
myself with," 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...
|
|
|
|
"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me,
|
|
dear. I never will again!"
|
|
|
|
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 'that poor dear' to come in and spend the
|
|
day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often
|
|
felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and
|
|
nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell
|
|
out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend.
|
|
Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself
|
|
because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered
|
|
her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John
|
|
wouldn't like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what
|
|
John disliked even worse.
|
|
|
|
She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
|
|
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
|
|
more--his money. She knew where it was, was 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 man's
|
|
wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her
|
|
little account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without
|
|
fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted
|
|
her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg
|
|
didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but
|
|
she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console
|
|
herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie needn't 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 wasn't
|
|
worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in
|
|
the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.
|
|
|
|
But the trifles cost more 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 Year's. That was only a month to
|
|
wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had
|
|
the money, if she only dared to take it. John always 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, "A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am." She
|
|
answered, "I'll take it," and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie
|
|
had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no
|
|
consequence, and driven away, 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, didn't
|
|
become her, after all, and the words 'fifty dollars' seemed stamped
|
|
like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her,
|
|
not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost
|
|
of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that
|
|
night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life,
|
|
she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they
|
|
could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had
|
|
found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills
|
|
were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was
|
|
undoing the old pocketbook which they called the 'bank', when Meg,
|
|
knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously...
|
|
|
|
"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."
|
|
|
|
John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so,
|
|
and used to enjoy his masculine 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...
|
|
|
|
"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
|
|
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,
|
|
you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year's
|
|
money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for
|
|
I knew you'd think it wrong in me."
|
|
|
|
John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly,
|
|
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing
|
|
boots. I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does
|
|
pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."
|
|
|
|
That had been one of her last 'trifles', and John's eye had fallen on
|
|
it as he spoke. "Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful
|
|
fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.
|
|
|
|
"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
|
|
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
|
|
|
|
"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total', as Mr. Mantalini says?"
|
|
|
|
That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
|
|
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
|
|
answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at
|
|
the same time, pointing to the sum which would have 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 slowly--but she could
|
|
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure--. . .
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
|
|
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."
|
|
|
|
"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden
|
|
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
|
|
|
|
"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
|
|
but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she
|
|
gets it on," said John dryly.
|
|
|
|
"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to
|
|
waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up
|
|
so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and
|
|
pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and
|
|
I'm tired of being poor."
|
|
|
|
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
|
|
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
|
|
pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the
|
|
minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up,
|
|
saying with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this. I do
|
|
my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not
|
|
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held
|
|
him close, crying, with repentant tears, "Oh, John, my dear, kind,
|
|
hard-working boy. I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and
|
|
ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"
|
|
|
|
He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach,
|
|
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
|
|
forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had
|
|
promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had
|
|
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings
|
|
recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so
|
|
quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he
|
|
stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry
|
|
herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the
|
|
discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat
|
|
reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had
|
|
simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I
|
|
can't afford it, my dear."
|
|
|
|
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with
|
|
her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would
|
|
break.
|
|
|
|
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
|
|
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
|
|
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him
|
|
a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings
|
|
and failures of those he loved.
|
|
|
|
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
|
|
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
|
|
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present
|
|
of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and
|
|
when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new
|
|
silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
|
|
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home
|
|
early, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning
|
|
by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted
|
|
little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to
|
|
Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.
|
|
|
|
Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday,
|
|
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for
|
|
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
|
|
other.
|
|
|
|
"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me
|
|
before I came home?" began Laurie in a loud whisper.
|
|
|
|
"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a
|
|
worshipin'. We didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the
|
|
parlor, and I'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved
|
|
reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
|
|
|
|
Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon
|
|
a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
|
|
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.
|
|
|
|
"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.
|
|
|
|
Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
|
|
with an imploring gesture. "No, thank you. I'd rather not. I shall
|
|
drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."
|
|
|
|
"Then you shan't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to
|
|
go.
|
|
|
|
"I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages." and
|
|
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put
|
|
into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah,
|
|
and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself
|
|
invested with two babies instead of one.
|
|
|
|
No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
|
|
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the
|
|
unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that
|
|
Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
|
|
|
|
"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute, then turning to the
|
|
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added,
|
|
"Take 'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."
|
|
|
|
Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
|
|
as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie
|
|
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
|
|
|
|
"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have told you,
|
|
for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done
|
|
it," said Jo, when she got her breath.
|
|
|
|
"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
|
|
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up,
|
|
Jo, for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
|
|
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
|
|
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
|
|
|
|
"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming
|
|
upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
|
|
|
|
"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent
|
|
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
|
|
|
|
"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
|
|
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
|
|
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
|
|
in such matters.
|
|
|
|
"Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
|
|
sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
|
|
|
|
Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
|
|
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.
|
|
|
|
"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy, see him kick, he
|
|
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
|
|
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
|
|
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
|
|
|
|
"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother
|
|
and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs,
|
|
and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,"
|
|
said Amy, with aunt-like interest.
|
|
|
|
"Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short," said Laurie
|
|
|
|
"Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried Jo
|
|
clapping her hands.
|
|
|
|
Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were 'Daisy' and
|
|
'Demi' to the end of the chapter.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
|
|
|
|
CALLS
|
|
|
|
"Come, Jo, it's time."
|
|
|
|
"For what?"
|
|
|
|
"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make
|
|
half a dozen calls with me today?"
|
|
|
|
"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't
|
|
think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when
|
|
a single one upsets me for a week."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon
|
|
of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
|
|
neighbors' visits."
|
|
|
|
"If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my
|
|
bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair,
|
|
and I don't go."
|
|
|
|
"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you
|
|
pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your
|
|
duty, and then be at peace for another six months."
|
|
|
|
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was
|
|
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
|
|
because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking
|
|
to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make
|
|
calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the
|
|
formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain,
|
|
bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and
|
|
having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she
|
|
smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat
|
|
and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.
|
|
|
|
"Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't
|
|
intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her
|
|
with amazement.
|
|
|
|
"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty
|
|
walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do
|
|
for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as
|
|
elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me,
|
|
and furbelows only worry me."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me
|
|
distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no
|
|
pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's
|
|
no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if
|
|
you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil.
|
|
You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and
|
|
behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid
|
|
to go alone, do come and take care of me."
|
|
|
|
"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old
|
|
sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred,
|
|
and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the
|
|
most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be
|
|
commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly, will that satisfy
|
|
you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike
|
|
submission.
|
|
|
|
"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll
|
|
tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good
|
|
impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only
|
|
try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and
|
|
put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becoming, and you look too
|
|
sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered
|
|
handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and
|
|
then you can have my dove-colored one."
|
|
|
|
While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not
|
|
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled
|
|
into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet
|
|
strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she
|
|
put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out
|
|
the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the
|
|
present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her
|
|
hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last
|
|
touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of
|
|
countenance, saying meekly...
|
|
|
|
"I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die
|
|
happy."
|
|
|
|
"You're highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a
|
|
careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then
|
|
fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes,
|
|
you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with
|
|
the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your
|
|
hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you
|
|
can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to
|
|
see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's
|
|
simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic.
|
|
Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress
|
|
evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose
|
|
isn't."
|
|
|
|
"You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through
|
|
her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the
|
|
golden hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it
|
|
up, please, ma'am?"
|
|
|
|
"Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping
|
|
style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts
|
|
gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You'll
|
|
never look finished if you are not careful about the little details,
|
|
for they make up the pleasing whole."
|
|
|
|
Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing
|
|
up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as
|
|
'pretty as picters', Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window
|
|
to watch them.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so
|
|
I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your
|
|
abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and
|
|
quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen
|
|
minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed
|
|
the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.
|
|
|
|
"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet', yes, I think I can promise that.
|
|
I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it
|
|
off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind,
|
|
my child."
|
|
|
|
Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during
|
|
the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold
|
|
correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as
|
|
silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her 'charming
|
|
novel', and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera,
|
|
and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a
|
|
demure "Yes" or "No" with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the
|
|
word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with
|
|
her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment
|
|
like Maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'.
|
|
|
|
"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was
|
|
the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door
|
|
closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall,
|
|
but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very
|
|
naturally laid the blame upon Jo.
|
|
|
|
"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
|
|
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
|
|
stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs'. Gossip as other girls do,
|
|
and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes
|
|
up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to
|
|
know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."
|
|
|
|
"I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and
|
|
raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll
|
|
imitate what is called 'a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May
|
|
Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't
|
|
say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!"
|
|
|
|
Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there
|
|
was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she
|
|
saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young
|
|
ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and
|
|
join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken
|
|
possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to
|
|
hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful
|
|
young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush
|
|
in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who
|
|
seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as
|
|
the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her
|
|
ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with
|
|
curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the
|
|
fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this
|
|
sort of conversation.
|
|
|
|
"She rides splendidly. Who taught her?"
|
|
|
|
"No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting
|
|
straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she
|
|
doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap
|
|
because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a
|
|
passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a
|
|
horsebreaker, and get her living so."
|
|
|
|
At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the
|
|
impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which
|
|
was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady
|
|
was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off
|
|
again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful
|
|
blunders.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone,
|
|
and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that
|
|
you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for
|
|
a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who
|
|
enjoyed the subject.
|
|
|
|
"None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the
|
|
river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try,
|
|
because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really
|
|
pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she
|
|
took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it
|
|
over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the
|
|
utter amazement of the old man!"
|
|
|
|
"Did she ride the horse?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her
|
|
brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the
|
|
life of the party."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
|
|
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
|
|
girl look so red and uncomfortable.
|
|
|
|
She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
|
|
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One
|
|
of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore
|
|
to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it
|
|
was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness,
|
|
"Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours
|
|
any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.
|
|
|
|
"That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's
|
|
nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for
|
|
Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest
|
|
shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,"
|
|
added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that
|
|
exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her
|
|
cardcase at her.
|
|
|
|
"We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,"
|
|
observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady,
|
|
who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.
|
|
|
|
Any mention of her 'works' always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either
|
|
grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque
|
|
remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write
|
|
that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you
|
|
going to New York this winter?"
|
|
|
|
As Miss Lamb had 'enjoyed' the story, this speech was not exactly
|
|
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake,
|
|
but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was
|
|
for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an
|
|
abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their
|
|
mouths.
|
|
|
|
"Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining
|
|
for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should
|
|
come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."
|
|
|
|
Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style
|
|
that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong
|
|
desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
|
|
|
|
"Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What
|
|
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and
|
|
boots, and all the rest of it?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no
|
|
use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season,
|
|
and have things as easy and fine as they do."
|
|
|
|
"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our
|
|
poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper
|
|
pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to
|
|
speak," said Amy despairingly.
|
|
|
|
Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with
|
|
the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.
|
|
|
|
"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third
|
|
mansion.
|
|
|
|
"Just as you please. I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer.
|
|
|
|
"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a
|
|
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance
|
|
has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being
|
|
disturbed by her failure to suit.
|
|
|
|
An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children
|
|
speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the
|
|
hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted
|
|
herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She
|
|
listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and
|
|
poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick,"
|
|
regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a
|
|
visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma
|
|
to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left
|
|
in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and
|
|
dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an
|
|
inspired Frenchwoman.
|
|
|
|
Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself
|
|
to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady
|
|
who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole
|
|
family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and
|
|
breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best
|
|
of us--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which
|
|
set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming
|
|
of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has
|
|
something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like
|
|
that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while
|
|
she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled.
|
|
But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the
|
|
British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the
|
|
proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from
|
|
this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping
|
|
that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which
|
|
should bring disgrace upon the name of March.
|
|
|
|
It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the
|
|
grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog
|
|
reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related
|
|
one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was
|
|
poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating
|
|
gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her
|
|
gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her
|
|
damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come
|
|
again, "It was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks."
|
|
|
|
"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after
|
|
that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
|
|
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
|
|
|
|
"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from
|
|
any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.
|
|
|
|
"Don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his
|
|
father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he
|
|
is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let
|
|
him alone."
|
|
|
|
"You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and
|
|
just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,
|
|
whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod
|
|
and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.
|
|
|
|
"No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor admire
|
|
Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third
|
|
cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever.
|
|
I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman
|
|
in spite of the brown paper parcels."
|
|
|
|
"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo, "so let us look amiable, and
|
|
drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply
|
|
grateful."
|
|
|
|
The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo
|
|
uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being
|
|
told that the young ladies were engaged.
|
|
|
|
"Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down
|
|
there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our
|
|
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
|
|
|
|
"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay
|
|
her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It's a
|
|
little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it
|
|
will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping
|
|
boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your
|
|
bonnet."
|
|
|
|
"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from
|
|
her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and
|
|
spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to
|
|
please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much
|
|
time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and
|
|
let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy."
|
|
|
|
Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,
|
|
"Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they
|
|
have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd
|
|
remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked than I am,
|
|
because there is more of you."
|
|
|
|
"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own
|
|
that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a
|
|
person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a
|
|
great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that
|
|
I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I'm not called upon
|
|
to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making
|
|
yourself disagreeable because he is."
|
|
|
|
"But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and
|
|
how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any
|
|
good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddie to manage. But
|
|
there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word,
|
|
and I say we ought to do it to others if we can."
|
|
|
|
"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other
|
|
boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have
|
|
convulsed the 'remarkable boy' if he had heard it. "If we were belles,
|
|
or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but
|
|
for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve
|
|
of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a
|
|
particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and
|
|
puritanical."
|
|
|
|
"So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely
|
|
because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort
|
|
of morality."
|
|
|
|
"I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world,
|
|
and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
|
|
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one."
|
|
|
|
"I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the
|
|
laughing the world would never get on without them. We can't agree
|
|
about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will
|
|
get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should
|
|
rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."
|
|
|
|
"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry Aunt with your new ideas."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some
|
|
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It's
|
|
my doom, and I can't help it."
|
|
|
|
They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
|
|
interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a
|
|
conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their
|
|
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but
|
|
Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased
|
|
everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit
|
|
was felt at once, and both aunts 'my deared' her affectionately,
|
|
looking what they afterward said emphatically, "That child improves
|
|
every day."
|
|
|
|
"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy
|
|
sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well
|
|
in the young.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a
|
|
table, as I have nothing but my time to give."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the
|
|
Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly
|
|
connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to
|
|
work."
|
|
|
|
"I am willing to work. It's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters,
|
|
and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.
|
|
Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
|
|
|
|
"Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a
|
|
pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and
|
|
that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at
|
|
Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.
|
|
|
|
If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance
|
|
for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but
|
|
unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see
|
|
what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot
|
|
as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a
|
|
saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of
|
|
several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of
|
|
holding her tongue.
|
|
|
|
"I don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd
|
|
rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."
|
|
|
|
"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.
|
|
|
|
"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
|
|
|
|
Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in
|
|
the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
|
|
|
|
"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy's.
|
|
|
|
"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often
|
|
as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old
|
|
lady to smile affably.
|
|
|
|
"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Don't know a word. I'm very stupid about studying anything, can't
|
|
bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the
|
|
brusque reply.
|
|
|
|
Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy,
|
|
"You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't
|
|
trouble you any more, do they?"
|
|
|
|
"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great
|
|
things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that
|
|
joyful time arrives."
|
|
|
|
"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said
|
|
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her
|
|
ball for her.
|
|
|
|
Crosspatch, draw the latch,
|
|
Sit by the fire and spin,
|
|
|
|
squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to
|
|
peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry
|
|
that it was impossible to help laughing.
|
|
|
|
"Most observing bird," said the old lady.
|
|
|
|
"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china
|
|
closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, I will. Come Amy." and Jo brought the visit to an end,
|
|
feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon
|
|
her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy
|
|
kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the
|
|
impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March
|
|
to say, as they vanished...
|
|
|
|
"You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the money." and Aunt Carrol to
|
|
reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY
|
|
|
|
CONSEQUENCES
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was
|
|
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be
|
|
invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the
|
|
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
|
|
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her
|
|
life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on
|
|
easily. The 'haughty, uninteresting creature' was let severely alone,
|
|
but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the
|
|
art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate
|
|
and valuable contributions to it.
|
|
|
|
Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then
|
|
there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost
|
|
impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young,
|
|
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.
|
|
|
|
May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater
|
|
favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling
|
|
circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty
|
|
pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases--that was one
|
|
thorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy at
|
|
a late party and only once with May--that was thorn number two. But
|
|
the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for
|
|
her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had
|
|
whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the
|
|
Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her
|
|
naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the
|
|
frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had
|
|
reached the culprits, however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when,
|
|
the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches
|
|
to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the
|
|
supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a
|
|
cold look...
|
|
|
|
"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about
|
|
my giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most
|
|
prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are
|
|
the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take
|
|
this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in
|
|
the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have
|
|
another table if you like."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this
|
|
little speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to
|
|
utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at
|
|
her full of surprise and trouble.
|
|
|
|
Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess
|
|
what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,
|
|
"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"
|
|
|
|
"Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg. It's merely a matter
|
|
of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this
|
|
table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to
|
|
you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but
|
|
we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you
|
|
have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower table? The
|
|
little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a
|
|
charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you
|
|
know."
|
|
|
|
"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy
|
|
as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily,
|
|
but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with
|
|
unexpected amiability...
|
|
|
|
"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here
|
|
at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."
|
|
|
|
"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began
|
|
May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty
|
|
racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so
|
|
carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but
|
|
Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly...
|
|
|
|
"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her
|
|
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that
|
|
herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.
|
|
|
|
"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, Mama,"
|
|
said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.
|
|
|
|
"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle
|
|
ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.
|
|
|
|
The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which
|
|
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell
|
|
to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically.
|
|
But everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired.
|
|
Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the
|
|
little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered
|
|
like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless
|
|
efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch
|
|
wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to
|
|
tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best
|
|
tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid's
|
|
cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a
|
|
draft, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the
|
|
morrow. Any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will
|
|
sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through her task.
|
|
|
|
There was great indignation at home when she told her story that
|
|
evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done
|
|
right. Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all, and Jo
|
|
demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean
|
|
people to get on without her.
|
|
|
|
"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such
|
|
things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to
|
|
show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy
|
|
actions, won't they, Marmee?"
|
|
|
|
"That's the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best,
|
|
though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with
|
|
the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and
|
|
practicing.
|
|
|
|
In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate,
|
|
Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her
|
|
enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that
|
|
came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her
|
|
table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling
|
|
the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique
|
|
cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which
|
|
on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts.
|
|
As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable
|
|
pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think.
|
|
Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little
|
|
spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns
|
|
and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
|
|
|
|
"I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright
|
|
page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not
|
|
hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a
|
|
minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet
|
|
rebuke for all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise
|
|
and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in
|
|
street, school, office, or home. Even a fair table may become a
|
|
pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out
|
|
of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that
|
|
text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do,
|
|
took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice.
|
|
|
|
A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the pretty
|
|
things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their
|
|
voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the
|
|
story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better
|
|
spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving
|
|
it. She heard May say sorrowfully...
|
|
|
|
"It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't
|
|
want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then.
|
|
Now it's spoiled."
|
|
|
|
"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested someone.
|
|
|
|
"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish,
|
|
for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly...
|
|
|
|
"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I
|
|
was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your
|
|
table rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive
|
|
me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."
|
|
|
|
As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile,
|
|
and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly
|
|
thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.
|
|
|
|
May's answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was
|
|
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a
|
|
disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them
|
|
at her own table."
|
|
|
|
Now, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have
|
|
them appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done
|
|
it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as
|
|
she presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table
|
|
to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that
|
|
one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.
|
|
|
|
It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her
|
|
table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few
|
|
cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long
|
|
before night.
|
|
|
|
The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd
|
|
about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and
|
|
fro with important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked
|
|
wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and
|
|
happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no
|
|
hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not
|
|
only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his
|
|
friends made it a real martyrdom.
|
|
|
|
She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet
|
|
that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no
|
|
complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave
|
|
her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a
|
|
charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by
|
|
getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the
|
|
tables were about to be turned.
|
|
|
|
"Don't do anything rude, pray Jo; I won't have any fuss made, so let it
|
|
all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early,
|
|
hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little
|
|
table.
|
|
|
|
"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I
|
|
know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and
|
|
his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet." returned
|
|
Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar
|
|
tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.
|
|
|
|
"Is that my boy?"
|
|
|
|
"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm
|
|
with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
|
|
|
|
"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and I'll be
|
|
hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down
|
|
before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with
|
|
warmth.
|
|
|
|
"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not
|
|
arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I
|
|
shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean
|
|
thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo in a disgusted
|
|
tone.
|
|
|
|
"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was
|
|
poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."
|
|
|
|
"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are
|
|
just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?"
|
|
began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.
|
|
|
|
"Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at
|
|
all. But we mustn't stand philandering here. I've got to help Amy, so
|
|
you go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll be so very kind as to
|
|
let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you
|
|
forever."
|
|
|
|
"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut
|
|
the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the
|
|
bars, "Go away, Teddy, I'm busy."
|
|
|
|
Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for
|
|
Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a loverly basket arranged
|
|
in his best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out
|
|
en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only
|
|
came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and
|
|
apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends
|
|
gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets,
|
|
encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in
|
|
the room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing
|
|
more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the
|
|
conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.
|
|
|
|
Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily
|
|
surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking
|
|
up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of
|
|
the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of
|
|
the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She
|
|
also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and
|
|
considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table,
|
|
she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them.
|
|
"Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive
|
|
her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family.
|
|
|
|
"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May with a
|
|
conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be
|
|
generous.
|
|
|
|
"She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is
|
|
enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know,
|
|
'especially to gentlemen'." Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap,
|
|
but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to
|
|
praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.
|
|
|
|
"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for
|
|
Father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.
|
|
|
|
"Everything of Amy's sold long ago. I took care that the right people
|
|
saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned
|
|
May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had,
|
|
that day.
|
|
|
|
Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked
|
|
both touched and surprised by the report of May's word and manner.
|
|
|
|
"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables
|
|
as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table," she said,
|
|
ordering out 'Teddy's own', as the girls called the college friends.
|
|
|
|
"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table, but do your
|
|
duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense
|
|
of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx
|
|
prepared to take the field.
|
|
|
|
"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said little
|
|
Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and
|
|
getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said...
|
|
|
|
"Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a
|
|
paternal pat on the head.
|
|
|
|
"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals
|
|
of fire on her enemy's head.
|
|
|
|
To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but
|
|
pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen
|
|
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
|
|
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted
|
|
fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.
|
|
|
|
Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said
|
|
something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam
|
|
with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and
|
|
anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till
|
|
several days later.
|
|
|
|
The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she
|
|
did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look
|
|
which said 'forgive and forget'. That satisfied Amy, and when she got
|
|
home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a
|
|
great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March,"
|
|
as Laurie announced with a flourish.
|
|
|
|
"You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character
|
|
than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I
|
|
respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their
|
|
hair together late that night.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must
|
|
have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart
|
|
on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done
|
|
it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.
|
|
|
|
"Why, girls, you needn't praise me so. I only did as I'd be done by.
|
|
You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true
|
|
gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know
|
|
how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little
|
|
meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far
|
|
from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is."
|
|
|
|
Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, "I understand now
|
|
what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on
|
|
faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness,
|
|
for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you'll get
|
|
your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall."
|
|
|
|
A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be
|
|
delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was
|
|
illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who
|
|
were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.
|
|
|
|
"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants..."
|
|
|
|
"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an
|
|
uncontrollable rapture.
|
|
|
|
"No, dear, not you. It's Amy."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Mother! She's too young, it's my turn first. I've wanted it so
|
|
long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid. I
|
|
must go!"
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is
|
|
not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."
|
|
|
|
"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't
|
|
fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me
|
|
the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent
|
|
spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said--'I
|
|
planned at first to ask Jo, but as 'favors burden her', and she 'hates
|
|
French', I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile,
|
|
will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the
|
|
trip may give her."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can't I learn to keep it
|
|
quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When
|
|
she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said
|
|
sorrowfully...
|
|
|
|
"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so
|
|
try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by
|
|
reproaches or regrets."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the
|
|
basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and
|
|
try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute
|
|
of happiness. But it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful
|
|
disappointment," and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held
|
|
with several very bitter tears.
|
|
|
|
"Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you
|
|
are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and
|
|
all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted
|
|
in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears,
|
|
and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how
|
|
gratefully she would bear it.
|
|
|
|
By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family
|
|
jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without
|
|
repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the
|
|
news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture,
|
|
and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving
|
|
such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in
|
|
visions of art than herself.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as
|
|
she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career, for if I have
|
|
any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove
|
|
it."
|
|
|
|
"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new
|
|
collars which were to be handed over to Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the
|
|
aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face
|
|
at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on
|
|
vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.
|
|
|
|
"No, you won't. You hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man,
|
|
and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo.
|
|
|
|
"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one
|
|
will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I
|
|
should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if
|
|
the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor
|
|
drawing teacher.
|
|
|
|
"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh. "If you wish it you'll have it, for your
|
|
wishes are always granted--mine never."
|
|
|
|
"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with
|
|
her knife.
|
|
|
|
"Rather!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum
|
|
for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you. I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day
|
|
comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but
|
|
magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.
|
|
|
|
There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment
|
|
till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue
|
|
ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried
|
|
till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the
|
|
steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it
|
|
suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her
|
|
and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last
|
|
lingerer, saying with a sob...
|
|
|
|
"Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen..."
|
|
|
|
"I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort
|
|
you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to
|
|
keep his word.
|
|
|
|
So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and
|
|
beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from
|
|
the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall
|
|
the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see
|
|
nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.
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|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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|
OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
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|
|
London
|
|
|
|
Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
|
|
Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years
|
|
ago, and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long,
|
|
so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it
|
|
all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for
|
|
I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.
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|
|
|
I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after
|
|
that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of
|
|
pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially
|
|
the officers. Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary
|
|
aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have
|
|
nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would
|
|
smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid.
|
|
|
|
Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so
|
|
when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such
|
|
walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was
|
|
almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so
|
|
grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much
|
|
good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or
|
|
whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and
|
|
tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a
|
|
state of rapture.
|
|
|
|
It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found
|
|
it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there,
|
|
ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the
|
|
valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning,
|
|
but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of
|
|
little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I
|
|
never shall forget it.
|
|
|
|
At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when
|
|
I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung,
|
|
with a look at me...
|
|
|
|
"Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
|
|
She lives on the banks of Killarney;
|
|
From the glance of her eye,
|
|
Shun danger and fly,
|
|
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."
|
|
|
|
Wasn't that nonsensical?
|
|
|
|
We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place,
|
|
and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of
|
|
dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved
|
|
_à la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he
|
|
looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned
|
|
off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in
|
|
them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given 'em the
|
|
latest Yankee shine." It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you
|
|
what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with
|
|
us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was
|
|
a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the card. Wasn't
|
|
that fun, girls? I like traveling.
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|
|
|
I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding
|
|
through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The
|
|
farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves,
|
|
latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The
|
|
very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in
|
|
clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got
|
|
nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass
|
|
so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a
|
|
rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to
|
|
the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the
|
|
rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but
|
|
Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This
|
|
is the way we went on. Amy, flying up--"Oh, that must be Kenilworth,
|
|
that gray place among the trees!" Flo, darting to my window--"How
|
|
sweet! We must go there sometime, won't we Papa?" Uncle, calmly
|
|
admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a
|
|
brewery."
|
|
|
|
A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a man
|
|
going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts
|
|
with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. "A colliery," remarks
|
|
Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all
|
|
lying down," says Amy. "See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo
|
|
sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that
|
|
keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of
|
|
Captain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself.
|
|
|
|
Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be
|
|
seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little
|
|
between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off
|
|
in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a
|
|
muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping
|
|
in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice
|
|
ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my
|
|
gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?
|
|
|
|
Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and
|
|
Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that
|
|
it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so
|
|
droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so
|
|
fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up
|
|
outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me
|
|
call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite
|
|
helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck
|
|
pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on
|
|
poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said...
|
|
|
|
"Now, then, mum?"
|
|
|
|
I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with
|
|
an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a
|
|
funeral. I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he went,
|
|
helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.
|
|
|
|
Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more
|
|
aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often
|
|
see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's
|
|
house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good
|
|
as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and
|
|
yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet
|
|
coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with
|
|
the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep,
|
|
dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and
|
|
tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side,
|
|
looking so funny I longed to sketch them.
|
|
|
|
Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi', or the king's way, but now it's more
|
|
like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and
|
|
the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and
|
|
bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a
|
|
tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in
|
|
their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy
|
|
Noah's Ark. Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little
|
|
children--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair
|
|
exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole,
|
|
and I thought it rather a nice little idea.
|
|
|
|
In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it,
|
|
that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are
|
|
going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest
|
|
day of my life.
|
|
|
|
It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without
|
|
telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as
|
|
we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I
|
|
was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards.
|
|
Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English
|
|
style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no
|
|
crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to
|
|
ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call,
|
|
and see them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did
|
|
have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I
|
|
talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other
|
|
all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of
|
|
her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his
|
|
'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten
|
|
Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems,
|
|
doesn't it?
|
|
|
|
Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I
|
|
really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late,
|
|
with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks,
|
|
theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl
|
|
their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see
|
|
you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving...
|
|
|
|
AMY
|
|
|
|
|
|
PARIS
|
|
|
|
Dear girls,
|
|
|
|
In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns
|
|
were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips
|
|
to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for
|
|
at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of
|
|
pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great
|
|
creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular
|
|
English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I
|
|
could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did'
|
|
London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry
|
|
to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when
|
|
they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in
|
|
hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter,
|
|
and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I
|
|
are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.
|
|
|
|
Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he
|
|
had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober
|
|
at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now
|
|
we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like
|
|
a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle
|
|
doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if
|
|
it would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is
|
|
old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we
|
|
knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do
|
|
the '_parley vooing_', as Uncle calls it.
|
|
|
|
Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till
|
|
night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with
|
|
all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre,
|
|
revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of
|
|
the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm
|
|
cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics
|
|
of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and
|
|
gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie
|
|
Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword,
|
|
and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when
|
|
I come, but haven't time to write.
|
|
|
|
The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and
|
|
lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them.
|
|
Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the
|
|
Bois and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I've seen the imperial
|
|
family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the
|
|
empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple
|
|
dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who
|
|
sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he
|
|
passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets
|
|
and a mounted guard before and behind.
|
|
|
|
We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the
|
|
antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very
|
|
curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in,
|
|
one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for
|
|
the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.
|
|
|
|
Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look
|
|
up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we
|
|
spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to
|
|
go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most
|
|
agreeable young man I ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more
|
|
charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however,
|
|
the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't
|
|
find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.
|
|
|
|
Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel
|
|
fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary,
|
|
and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and
|
|
admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my
|
|
sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.
|
|
|
|
Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie."_
|
|
|
|
|
|
HEIDELBERG
|
|
|
|
My dear Mamma,
|
|
|
|
Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you
|
|
what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.
|
|
|
|
The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with
|
|
all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it. I
|
|
haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a
|
|
lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted
|
|
on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about
|
|
one o'clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our
|
|
windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed
|
|
us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most
|
|
romantic thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great
|
|
fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart
|
|
of stone.
|
|
|
|
When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble
|
|
for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing
|
|
away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me
|
|
one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very
|
|
sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo,
|
|
which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and
|
|
turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that
|
|
boy, it begins to look like it.
|
|
|
|
The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost
|
|
some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when
|
|
Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I
|
|
quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was
|
|
delightful. I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's
|
|
famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it
|
|
more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as
|
|
everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all
|
|
about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything,
|
|
and it mortifies me.
|
|
|
|
Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just
|
|
gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him.
|
|
I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the
|
|
serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight
|
|
walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him
|
|
than fun. I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you
|
|
said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like
|
|
me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
|
|
them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will
|
|
shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!",
|
|
but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him,
|
|
though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably
|
|
together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich--ever so
|
|
much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object,
|
|
and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
|
|
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the
|
|
estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a
|
|
fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as
|
|
comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe
|
|
in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family
|
|
jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its
|
|
park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be
|
|
all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls
|
|
snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
|
|
hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can
|
|
help. One of us _must_ marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't
|
|
yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry
|
|
a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is
|
|
not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond
|
|
enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked.
|
|
So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it
|
|
was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but
|
|
little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my
|
|
side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
|
|
are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me.
|
|
Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then
|
|
said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein
|
|
wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his
|
|
meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the
|
|
cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood
|
|
in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
|
|
|
|
Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all
|
|
of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post
|
|
Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins,
|
|
the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by
|
|
the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace
|
|
best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms
|
|
inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the
|
|
wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd
|
|
got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through
|
|
the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and
|
|
waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that
|
|
something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn't feel
|
|
blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited.
|
|
|
|
By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the
|
|
great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about
|
|
myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter
|
|
begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at
|
|
once on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was very
|
|
sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute
|
|
because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could
|
|
not mistake, "I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?"
|
|
|
|
I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and
|
|
there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was
|
|
off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to
|
|
speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised
|
|
his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash
|
|
boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall
|
|
soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes,
|
|
thank you," when he says "Will you, please?"
|
|
|
|
Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was
|
|
going on. Don't be anxious about me, remember I am your 'prudent Amy',
|
|
and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you
|
|
like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk,
|
|
Marmee. Love and trust me.
|
|
|
|
Ever your AMY
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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|
|
|
TENDER TROUBLES
|
|
|
|
"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."
|
|
|
|
"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."
|
|
|
|
"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure
|
|
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."
|
|
|
|
"What makes you think so, Mother?"
|
|
|
|
"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
|
|
she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
|
|
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
|
|
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
|
|
me."
|
|
|
|
"Have you asked her about it?"
|
|
|
|
"I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or
|
|
looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
|
|
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
|
|
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after
|
|
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, "I think she is growing up,
|
|
and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets,
|
|
without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's
|
|
eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child,
|
|
forgetting she's a woman."
|
|
|
|
"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother
|
|
with a sigh and a smile.
|
|
|
|
"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
|
|
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
|
|
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."
|
|
|
|
"It's a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home,
|
|
now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon,
|
|
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."
|
|
|
|
"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be
|
|
one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I'm not, but
|
|
I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half
|
|
the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but
|
|
if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."
|
|
|
|
"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
|
|
heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don't
|
|
let her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get
|
|
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."
|
|
|
|
"Happy woman! I've got heaps."
|
|
|
|
"My dear, what are they?"
|
|
|
|
"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are
|
|
not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away, with a wise
|
|
nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at
|
|
least.
|
|
|
|
While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and
|
|
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
|
|
seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the
|
|
clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did
|
|
the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon,
|
|
when she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept
|
|
her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the
|
|
window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head
|
|
upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the
|
|
dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling
|
|
like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene! Coming
|
|
in tonight."
|
|
|
|
Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
|
|
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "How
|
|
strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."
|
|
|
|
"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright
|
|
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
|
|
tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her
|
|
half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.
|
|
Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about
|
|
needing more paper.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
|
|
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
|
|
just made. "I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I
|
|
wonder if her..." there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden
|
|
thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be.
|
|
He must. I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
|
|
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
|
|
"Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a
|
|
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only
|
|
one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently
|
|
for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out
|
|
her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face
|
|
opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're very charming, but you've no more
|
|
stability than a weathercock. So you needn't write touching notes and
|
|
smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I
|
|
won't have it."
|
|
|
|
Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake
|
|
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
|
|
only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
|
|
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
|
|
but so was everybody's. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
|
|
cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression
|
|
had prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was getting fonder
|
|
than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject
|
|
and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known
|
|
the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they
|
|
would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so."
|
|
But Jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a
|
|
joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.
|
|
|
|
When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month,
|
|
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
|
|
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope,
|
|
despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
|
|
conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at
|
|
many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
|
|
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender
|
|
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
|
|
and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduate in a
|
|
blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight
|
|
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
|
|
eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
|
|
imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former
|
|
could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter
|
|
were less manageable.
|
|
|
|
Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
|
|
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not
|
|
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
|
|
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But
|
|
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
|
|
a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
|
|
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on
|
|
the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
|
|
sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never
|
|
disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
|
|
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that
|
|
she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
|
|
cricket match, though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off
|
|
his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her
|
|
as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,
|
|
that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that
|
|
he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a
|
|
little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an
|
|
assiduity that was really almost tender.
|
|
|
|
"Who knows? Stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
|
|
about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
|
|
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love
|
|
each other. I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would
|
|
if the rest of us were out of the way."
|
|
|
|
As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she
|
|
ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?
|
|
And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she
|
|
sat down to settle that point.
|
|
|
|
Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long, broad,
|
|
well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
|
|
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,
|
|
rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested
|
|
tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young
|
|
women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner
|
|
had always been Jo's favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows
|
|
that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with
|
|
prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end.
|
|
This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon
|
|
of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.
|
|
|
|
Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
|
|
aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when
|
|
romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he
|
|
most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If 'the sausage' as they
|
|
called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and
|
|
repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child
|
|
who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner,
|
|
and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form
|
|
appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both
|
|
long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of
|
|
satisfaction...
|
|
|
|
"Now, this is filling at the price."
|
|
|
|
"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,
|
|
there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared
|
|
in a most mysterious manner.
|
|
|
|
"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all
|
|
the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it."
|
|
|
|
"Beth will pet you. I'm busy."
|
|
|
|
"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing,
|
|
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate
|
|
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"
|
|
|
|
Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
|
|
but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "How
|
|
many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"
|
|
|
|
"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending
|
|
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins,"
|
|
continued Jo reprovingly.
|
|
|
|
"Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let me
|
|
send them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a
|
|
'vent'."
|
|
|
|
"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt
|
|
desperately, Teddy."
|
|
|
|
"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you'. As I can't, I'll
|
|
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
|
|
all parties understand that it's only play."
|
|
|
|
"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
|
|
tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else
|
|
is doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo, forgetting to play
|
|
mentor.
|
|
|
|
"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
|
|
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and
|
|
others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad you can't flirt. It's really refreshing to see a sensible,
|
|
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool
|
|
of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do
|
|
go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm
|
|
sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,
|
|
they'd mend their ways, I fancy."
|
|
|
|
"They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
|
|
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
|
|
behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they
|
|
keep it up, and then you blame them."
|
|
|
|
"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We
|
|
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
|
|
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
|
|
among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
|
|
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
|
|
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
|
|
with our friend Cock Robin...
|
|
|
|
"Out upon you, fie upon you,
|
|
Bold-faced jig!"
|
|
|
|
It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
|
|
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
|
|
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
|
|
showed him many samples. Jo knew that 'young Laurence' was regarded as
|
|
a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their
|
|
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
|
|
of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be
|
|
spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still
|
|
believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone,
|
|
she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and
|
|
devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do
|
|
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."
|
|
|
|
"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
|
|
anxiety and merriment in his face.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
|
|
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half
|
|
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl may be." and Jo looked a
|
|
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.
|
|
|
|
"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
|
|
new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo's apron tassel
|
|
round his finger.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding aloud, "Go and
|
|
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."
|
|
|
|
"I'd rather stay here, thank you."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since
|
|
you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a
|
|
woman's apron string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
|
|
his own.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
|
|
tweak at the tassel.
|
|
|
|
"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.
|
|
|
|
He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the bonnets of
|
|
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more till the young
|
|
gentleman departed in high dudgeon.
|
|
|
|
Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
|
|
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
|
|
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"
|
|
|
|
"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Is it the old pain, my precious?"
|
|
|
|
"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
|
|
tears.
|
|
|
|
"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."
|
|
|
|
"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and
|
|
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
|
|
frightened.
|
|
|
|
"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"
|
|
|
|
"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie
|
|
down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I
|
|
will."
|
|
|
|
Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
|
|
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to
|
|
speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
|
|
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she
|
|
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
|
|
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.
|
|
|
|
"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
|
|
|
|
"Not now, not yet."
|
|
|
|
"Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always
|
|
glad to hear and help you, if they can."
|
|
|
|
"I know it. I'll tell you by-and-by."
|
|
|
|
"Is the pain better now?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."
|
|
|
|
"Go to sleep, dear. I'll stay with you."
|
|
|
|
So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
|
|
herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
|
|
a loving word can medicine most ills.
|
|
|
|
But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for
|
|
some days, she confided it to her mother.
|
|
|
|
"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of
|
|
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along together. "I want to go
|
|
away somewhere this winter for a change."
|
|
|
|
"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested
|
|
a double meaning.
|
|
|
|
With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new.
|
|
I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than
|
|
I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring
|
|
up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and
|
|
try my wings."
|
|
|
|
"Where will you hop?"
|
|
|
|
"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know
|
|
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
|
|
children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think
|
|
I should suit if I tried."
|
|
|
|
"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" and Mrs.
|
|
March looked surprised, but not displeased.
|
|
|
|
"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your
|
|
friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make things
|
|
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no
|
|
one knows me there. Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm
|
|
not ashamed of it."
|
|
|
|
"Nor I. But your writing?"
|
|
|
|
"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get
|
|
new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
|
|
quantities of material for my rubbish."
|
|
|
|
"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden
|
|
fancy?"
|
|
|
|
"No, Mother."
|
|
|
|
"May I know the others?"
|
|
|
|
Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
|
|
her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm
|
|
afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."
|
|
|
|
"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
|
|
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.
|
|
|
|
"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
|
|
proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of that, Jo."
|
|
|
|
"Why, please?"
|
|
|
|
"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends
|
|
you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I
|
|
fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much
|
|
alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong
|
|
wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite
|
|
patience and forbearance, as well as love."
|
|
|
|
"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
|
|
you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me
|
|
sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear
|
|
old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"
|
|
|
|
"You are sure of his feeling for you?"
|
|
|
|
The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of
|
|
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
|
|
of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said
|
|
anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away
|
|
before it comes to anything."
|
|
|
|
"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
|
|
|
|
Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
|
|
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will
|
|
rejoice that Annie may still hope."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
|
|
same in all--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
|
|
am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till
|
|
you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something
|
|
sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.
|
|
For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way,
|
|
she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'
|
|
|
|
"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by.
|
|
I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
|
|
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake
|
|
Jo should go away for a time.
|
|
|
|
"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll
|
|
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think
|
|
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
|
|
her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him
|
|
of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of
|
|
the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."
|
|
|
|
Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
|
|
that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that
|
|
Laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore.
|
|
|
|
The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs.
|
|
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
|
|
The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got
|
|
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
|
|
would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was
|
|
eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her
|
|
restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with
|
|
fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very
|
|
quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and
|
|
when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly,
|
|
"So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned."
|
|
|
|
Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
|
|
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth
|
|
seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.
|
|
|
|
"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before
|
|
she left.
|
|
|
|
"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.
|
|
|
|
"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
|
|
sadly."
|
|
|
|
"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
|
|
pet, and keep in order."
|
|
|
|
"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo
|
|
looked at her so queerly.
|
|
|
|
When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
|
|
bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come
|
|
and bring you home."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
|
|
|
|
JO'S JOURNAL
|
|
|
|
New York, November
|
|
|
|
Dear Marmee and Beth,
|
|
|
|
I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell,
|
|
though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I
|
|
lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might
|
|
have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small
|
|
children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I
|
|
amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time
|
|
they opened their mouths to roar.
|
|
|
|
Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up
|
|
likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that
|
|
big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky
|
|
parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a
|
|
sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view
|
|
and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a
|
|
fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew,
|
|
is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little
|
|
girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me
|
|
after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a
|
|
model governess.
|
|
|
|
I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great
|
|
table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will
|
|
believe it.
|
|
|
|
"Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly
|
|
way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with
|
|
such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the
|
|
children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your
|
|
own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant
|
|
people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always
|
|
free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.
|
|
There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she
|
|
bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
|
|
|
|
As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights
|
|
are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of
|
|
the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman
|
|
come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand,
|
|
carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away,
|
|
saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so. The
|
|
little back is too young to haf such heaviness."
|
|
|
|
Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles
|
|
show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she
|
|
laughed, and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always
|
|
doing things of that sort."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as
|
|
a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little
|
|
orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of
|
|
his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it
|
|
interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her
|
|
parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and
|
|
the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he
|
|
looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.
|
|
|
|
After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the
|
|
big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I
|
|
shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and
|
|
more tomorrow.
|
|
|
|
Tuesday Eve
|
|
|
|
Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted
|
|
like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all
|
|
round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up
|
|
till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the
|
|
girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little
|
|
Mabel 'with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned
|
|
to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and
|
|
someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was
|
|
dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and
|
|
lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in.
|
|
Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a
|
|
good look at him. A regular German--rather stout, with brown hair
|
|
tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I
|
|
ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our
|
|
sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands
|
|
were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except
|
|
his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen
|
|
was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were
|
|
off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in
|
|
spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
|
|
bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old
|
|
friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in
|
|
a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"
|
|
|
|
I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child
|
|
carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.
|
|
|
|
"Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running
|
|
to meet him.
|
|
|
|
"Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him,
|
|
my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding
|
|
her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he
|
|
put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought,
|
|
and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf
|
|
now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if
|
|
finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh,
|
|
while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look
|
|
that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French
|
|
than German.
|
|
|
|
Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my
|
|
work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and
|
|
gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing
|
|
affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the
|
|
other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard
|
|
for him to keep sober.
|
|
|
|
Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him
|
|
say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I
|
|
say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his
|
|
book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut! It all goes bad
|
|
this day."
|
|
|
|
Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one
|
|
more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself
|
|
back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the
|
|
clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if
|
|
ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep
|
|
on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a
|
|
hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five
|
|
o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,
|
|
just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I
|
|
made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as
|
|
she is short and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a
|
|
failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I
|
|
plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and
|
|
every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who
|
|
seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the
|
|
word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual
|
|
assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed
|
|
in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in
|
|
politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of
|
|
them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had
|
|
something in her.
|
|
|
|
Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting
|
|
answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on
|
|
one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy
|
|
had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad
|
|
to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a
|
|
manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I
|
|
like 'to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man
|
|
must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.
|
|
|
|
As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling
|
|
their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the
|
|
other, "Who's the new party?"
|
|
|
|
"Governess, or something of that sort."
|
|
|
|
"What the deuce is she at our table for?"
|
|
|
|
"Friend of the old lady's."
|
|
|
|
"Handsome head, but no style."
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on."
|
|
|
|
I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as
|
|
good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more
|
|
than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings
|
|
who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!
|
|
|
|
|
|
Thursday
|
|
|
|
Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my
|
|
little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a
|
|
few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that
|
|
Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the
|
|
laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and
|
|
follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which
|
|
delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore'.
|
|
Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all
|
|
sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings,
|
|
and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems,
|
|
call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of
|
|
jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and
|
|
takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his
|
|
foreign ways.
|
|
|
|
The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She
|
|
spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it's such fun
|
|
to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She
|
|
has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems
|
|
friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into
|
|
good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.
|
|
|
|
I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some
|
|
newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a
|
|
little old woman, introduced me very prettily. "This is Mamma's friend,
|
|
Miss March."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is an
|
|
'enfant terrible'.
|
|
|
|
We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the
|
|
blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so
|
|
again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown that
|
|
delighted the little wretches.
|
|
|
|
I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to
|
|
see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out,
|
|
by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and
|
|
there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand
|
|
and a darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of
|
|
it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and
|
|
all, saying in his loud, cheerful way...
|
|
|
|
"You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle."
|
|
|
|
I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to
|
|
think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German
|
|
gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not
|
|
so pretty.
|
|
|
|
|
|
Saturday
|
|
|
|
Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who
|
|
has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she
|
|
showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with
|
|
her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She
|
|
put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and
|
|
she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such
|
|
favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.
|
|
|
|
When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor
|
|
that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees,
|
|
with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie
|
|
feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in
|
|
cages built of chairs.
|
|
|
|
"We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty.
|
|
|
|
"Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair.
|
|
|
|
"Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when
|
|
Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and
|
|
said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a
|
|
noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly."
|
|
|
|
I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much
|
|
as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played
|
|
tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they
|
|
all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming
|
|
fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little
|
|
'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were
|
|
as simple and natural as Germans, don't you?
|
|
|
|
I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of
|
|
economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written
|
|
fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need.
|
|
Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will
|
|
sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know.
|
|
Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his
|
|
friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the
|
|
babies, and give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.
|
|
|
|
P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I
|
|
am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to
|
|
write about. Bless you!
|
|
|
|
DECEMBER
|
|
|
|
My Precious Betsey,
|
|
|
|
As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it
|
|
may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though
|
|
quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what
|
|
Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral
|
|
agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend
|
|
as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the
|
|
boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and
|
|
Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture
|
|
of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of
|
|
effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in
|
|
the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a
|
|
seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such
|
|
fun!
|
|
|
|
We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take lessons. I really
|
|
couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must
|
|
tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day
|
|
as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room where she was rummaging.
|
|
|
|
"Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these
|
|
books to rights, for I've turned everything upside down, trying to
|
|
discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not
|
|
long ago."
|
|
|
|
I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was 'a den' to
|
|
be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old
|
|
flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any
|
|
tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the
|
|
other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the
|
|
manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and
|
|
traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of
|
|
himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage
|
|
three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one
|
|
covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a
|
|
holder.
|
|
|
|
"Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in
|
|
the rag bay. "I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage
|
|
cut fingers, or make kite tails. It's dreadful, but I can't scold him.
|
|
He's so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him
|
|
roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to
|
|
give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a
|
|
sad pass sometimes."
|
|
|
|
"Let me mend them," said I. "I don't mind it, and he needn't know.
|
|
I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending
|
|
books."
|
|
|
|
So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the
|
|
socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns.
|
|
Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last
|
|
week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has
|
|
interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina
|
|
runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been
|
|
sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to
|
|
understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am.
|
|
The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I
|
|
was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
|
|
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer
|
|
looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, I
|
|
peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I
|
|
say, haf you a wish for German?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn," I blundered
|
|
out, as red as a peony.
|
|
|
|
"Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At
|
|
efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you,
|
|
Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay." And he pointed to my work 'Yes,'
|
|
they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid old
|
|
fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock
|
|
heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new
|
|
when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah! But I
|
|
haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.
|
|
Come, a little lesson then and now, or--no more good fairy works for me
|
|
and mine."
|
|
|
|
Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a
|
|
splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four
|
|
lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was
|
|
very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and
|
|
then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it
|
|
was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and
|
|
when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw
|
|
the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself
|
|
disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and
|
|
was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake
|
|
myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I'd covered
|
|
myself in glory.
|
|
|
|
"Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little
|
|
_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the
|
|
corner for making us trouble."
|
|
|
|
He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson's fairy tales so
|
|
invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my
|
|
lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely.
|
|
I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express
|
|
it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according
|
|
to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished
|
|
reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and
|
|
cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I
|
|
do him in German, gif me your ear." And away he went, rumbling out the
|
|
words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well
|
|
as hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which
|
|
is droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn't
|
|
understand half he read, for I couldn't help it, he was so earnest, I
|
|
so excited, and the whole thing so comical.
|
|
|
|
After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for
|
|
this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets
|
|
tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like
|
|
it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good
|
|
of him, isn't it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I
|
|
dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.
|
|
|
|
I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking
|
|
and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did.
|
|
I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only don't make a saint of him.
|
|
I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness.
|
|
Read him bits of my letters. I haven't time to write much, and that
|
|
will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.
|
|
|
|
JANUARY
|
|
|
|
A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
|
|
includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't tell you
|
|
how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't get it till
|
|
night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but
|
|
you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was
|
|
disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget
|
|
me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea,
|
|
and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I
|
|
just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat
|
|
down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in
|
|
my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the
|
|
better for being made instead of bought. Beth's new 'ink bib' was
|
|
capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll
|
|
be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully
|
|
the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!
|
|
|
|
Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that line, for on
|
|
New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he
|
|
values much, and I've often admired it, set up in the place of honor
|
|
with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how
|
|
I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own
|
|
name in it, "from my friend Friedrich Bhaer".
|
|
|
|
"You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between
|
|
these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and
|
|
he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will
|
|
help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen."
|
|
|
|
I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my library', as
|
|
if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in
|
|
Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me.
|
|
Now don't laugh at his horrid name. It isn't pronounced either Bear or
|
|
Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only
|
|
Germans can give it. I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him,
|
|
and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm
|
|
heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new
|
|
'friend Friedrich Bhaer'.
|
|
|
|
Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several little
|
|
things, and put them about the room, where he would find them
|
|
unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on
|
|
his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of
|
|
green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his
|
|
blower, so that he needn't burn up what Amy calls 'mouchoirs'. I made
|
|
it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black
|
|
and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
|
|
immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so
|
|
it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn't forget a
|
|
servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French
|
|
laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.
|
|
|
|
They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I didn't
|
|
mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke
|
|
remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and
|
|
feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask
|
|
on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of
|
|
the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and
|
|
cool, most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and
|
|
dress, and burst out into a 'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an
|
|
allegory on the banks of the Nile'. I enjoyed it very much, and when
|
|
we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the
|
|
young men tell another that he knew I'd been an actress, in fact, he
|
|
thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will
|
|
relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a
|
|
perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was 'quite a
|
|
landscape', to use a Teddyism.
|
|
|
|
I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in
|
|
my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many
|
|
failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take
|
|
more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory.
|
|
Bless you all! Ever your loving... Jo
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
|
|
|
|
FRIEND
|
|
|
|
Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy
|
|
with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the
|
|
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now
|
|
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl,
|
|
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that
|
|
money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to
|
|
have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved
|
|
more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth
|
|
everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her
|
|
bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so
|
|
that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years
|
|
Jo's most cherished castle in the air.
|
|
|
|
The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
|
|
long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en
|
|
Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
|
|
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
|
|
bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
|
|
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the
|
|
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
|
|
'up again and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
|
|
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but
|
|
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.
|
|
|
|
She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even
|
|
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
|
|
'thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
|
|
of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had
|
|
a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over
|
|
many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
|
|
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she
|
|
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
|
|
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar
|
|
smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels
|
|
rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them
|
|
took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this
|
|
reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
|
|
embarrassment...
|
|
|
|
"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to
|
|
see Mr. Dashwood."
|
|
|
|
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
|
|
and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced
|
|
with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
|
|
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
|
|
manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
|
|
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
|
|
occasion.
|
|
|
|
"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
|
|
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
|
|
suits."
|
|
|
|
While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
|
|
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,
|
|
and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.
|
|
|
|
"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
|
|
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon--sure
|
|
sign of a novice.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in
|
|
the _Blarneystone Banner_."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
|
|
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
|
|
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've
|
|
more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at
|
|
present, but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
|
|
|
|
Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
|
|
all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
|
|
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
|
|
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was
|
|
perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the
|
|
gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good
|
|
joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
|
|
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never
|
|
to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
|
|
pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
|
|
over the scene and long for next week.
|
|
|
|
When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr.
|
|
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.
|
|
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his
|
|
manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the
|
|
first.
|
|
|
|
"We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don't object to a few
|
|
alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
|
|
make it just the right length," he said, in a businesslike tone.
|
|
|
|
Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its
|
|
pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being
|
|
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
|
|
cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find
|
|
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
|
|
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.
|
|
|
|
"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
|
|
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
|
|
|
|
Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
|
|
forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an author could.
|
|
|
|
"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't
|
|
sell nowadays." Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.
|
|
|
|
"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
|
|
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.
|
|
|
|
"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
|
|
knowing how to express herself.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
|
|
sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
|
|
had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.
|
|
|
|
"Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story with a
|
|
satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
|
|
seemed good pay.
|
|
|
|
"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better
|
|
than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
|
|
emboldened by her success.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we'll look at it. Can't promise to take it. Tell her to make
|
|
it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your
|
|
friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.
|
|
|
|
"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and
|
|
has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.
|
|
|
|
"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will
|
|
you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who
|
|
felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
|
|
|
|
"I'll call. Good morning, Sir."
|
|
|
|
As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
|
|
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
|
|
|
|
Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
|
|
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
|
|
literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,
|
|
she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.
|
|
|
|
Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
|
|
scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
|
|
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
|
|
as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such
|
|
trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood
|
|
graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not
|
|
thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his
|
|
hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher
|
|
wages, had basely left him in the lurch.
|
|
|
|
She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
|
|
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the
|
|
mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One
|
|
thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell
|
|
them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not
|
|
approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon
|
|
afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with
|
|
her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but
|
|
promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.
|
|
|
|
She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
|
|
nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
|
|
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show
|
|
her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
|
|
|
|
But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could
|
|
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,
|
|
history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and
|
|
lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found
|
|
that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the
|
|
tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business
|
|
light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic
|
|
energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
|
|
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers
|
|
for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of
|
|
public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in
|
|
the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.
|
|
She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old
|
|
that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,
|
|
and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought
|
|
she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to
|
|
desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character.
|
|
She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its
|
|
influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on
|
|
dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent
|
|
bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side
|
|
of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.
|
|
|
|
She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
|
|
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and
|
|
speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young
|
|
minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own
|
|
punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.
|
|
|
|
I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
|
|
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
|
|
brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
|
|
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who
|
|
interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one
|
|
of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and
|
|
lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a
|
|
writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and
|
|
studied him--a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he
|
|
known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.
|
|
|
|
Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither
|
|
rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called
|
|
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a
|
|
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as
|
|
about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving
|
|
something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer
|
|
young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face
|
|
looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his
|
|
sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last
|
|
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had
|
|
any sorrow, 'it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only
|
|
his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but
|
|
Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
|
|
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
|
|
friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and
|
|
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
|
|
words.
|
|
|
|
His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
|
|
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
|
|
comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
|
|
underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
|
|
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.
|
|
His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
|
|
like other people's.
|
|
|
|
"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
|
|
genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify
|
|
even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own
|
|
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.
|
|
|
|
Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
|
|
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
|
|
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
|
|
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
|
|
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
|
|
to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
|
|
Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked
|
|
it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud
|
|
to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor
|
|
language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much
|
|
beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
|
|
Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
|
|
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which
|
|
Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman
|
|
felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
|
|
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with
|
|
her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several
|
|
celebrities.
|
|
|
|
Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
|
|
worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for
|
|
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
|
|
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
|
|
women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
|
|
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
|
|
'spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an
|
|
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a
|
|
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
|
|
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
|
|
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly
|
|
with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at
|
|
another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering
|
|
her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea
|
|
Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady
|
|
rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting
|
|
their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting
|
|
themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young
|
|
musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked
|
|
horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be
|
|
the most ordinary man of the party.
|
|
|
|
Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,
|
|
that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
|
|
her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the
|
|
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
|
|
intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles
|
|
beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel
|
|
were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,
|
|
and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad
|
|
headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the
|
|
world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,
|
|
according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,
|
|
that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and
|
|
intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or
|
|
metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,
|
|
half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being
|
|
turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a
|
|
holiday.
|
|
|
|
She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
|
|
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
|
|
He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated
|
|
just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,
|
|
trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after
|
|
they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
|
|
|
|
Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions,
|
|
not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be
|
|
lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,
|
|
attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit
|
|
his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul
|
|
would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over
|
|
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.
|
|
|
|
He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an
|
|
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion
|
|
with all the eloquence of truth--an eloquence which made his broken
|
|
English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for
|
|
the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and
|
|
stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got
|
|
right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed
|
|
better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was
|
|
not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid
|
|
ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but
|
|
not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
|
|
|
|
She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor
|
|
her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out
|
|
then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent.
|
|
She began to see that character is a better possession than money,
|
|
rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a
|
|
wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then
|
|
her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.
|
|
|
|
This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his
|
|
respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the
|
|
wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew
|
|
out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo
|
|
her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put
|
|
there and he had forgotten to take off.
|
|
|
|
"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought
|
|
Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down,
|
|
quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his
|
|
headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.
|
|
|
|
She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,
|
|
hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover
|
|
it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German
|
|
read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading
|
|
came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that
|
|
night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The
|
|
Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask
|
|
with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .
|
|
|
|
"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no
|
|
respect for me, that you go on so bad?"
|
|
|
|
"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
|
|
said Jo.
|
|
|
|
Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt
|
|
and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then
|
|
threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.
|
|
|
|
"Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my
|
|
cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,
|
|
you too shall wear him."
|
|
|
|
But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer
|
|
caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great
|
|
disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not
|
|
for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I
|
|
haf no patience with those who make this harm."
|
|
|
|
Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a
|
|
lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but
|
|
the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but
|
|
fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It
|
|
was not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if
|
|
it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no
|
|
name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a
|
|
blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more
|
|
than people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among
|
|
the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he
|
|
asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it
|
|
occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it
|
|
troubled him. He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business.
|
|
I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done. He
|
|
only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from
|
|
mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an
|
|
impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out
|
|
his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his
|
|
mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by
|
|
the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready
|
|
to say quite naturally, but very gravely...
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young
|
|
girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I
|
|
would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad
|
|
trash."
|
|
|
|
"All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for
|
|
it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
|
|
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said
|
|
Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits
|
|
followed her pin.
|
|
|
|
"There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to
|
|
sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
|
|
not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison
|
|
in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think
|
|
a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."
|
|
|
|
Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in
|
|
his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for
|
|
her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and
|
|
gone harmlessly up the chimney.
|
|
|
|
"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
|
|
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.
|
|
|
|
Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
|
|
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
|
|
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they
|
|
are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her
|
|
book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be
|
|
very good and proper now."
|
|
|
|
"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she
|
|
imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the
|
|
words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.
|
|
|
|
As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully
|
|
reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr.
|
|
Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling
|
|
to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed
|
|
to have on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the
|
|
faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her
|
|
with dismay.
|
|
|
|
"They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is
|
|
more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself
|
|
and other people, for the sake of money. I know it's so, for I can't
|
|
read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,
|
|
and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of
|
|
them?"
|
|
|
|
Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
|
|
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better
|
|
burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves
|
|
up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura
|
|
whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
|
|
|
|
But when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap
|
|
of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
|
|
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
|
|
|
|
"I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my
|
|
time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
|
|
wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care
|
|
about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I
|
|
should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother
|
|
and Father hadn't been so particular about such things."
|
|
|
|
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Father and Mother were
|
|
particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians
|
|
to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to
|
|
impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build
|
|
character upon in womanhood.
|
|
|
|
Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not
|
|
pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as
|
|
is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.
|
|
Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale
|
|
which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so
|
|
intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the
|
|
beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease
|
|
in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and
|
|
cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to
|
|
several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to
|
|
agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn't sell.
|
|
|
|
Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of
|
|
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it.
|
|
The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
|
|
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to
|
|
convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked
|
|
to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty
|
|
boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did
|
|
not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did
|
|
go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to
|
|
escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons
|
|
on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo
|
|
corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...
|
|
|
|
"I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try again, and
|
|
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't do better, that's
|
|
honest, at least." Which decision proved that her second tumble down
|
|
the beanstalk had done her some good.
|
|
|
|
While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had
|
|
been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked
|
|
serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did
|
|
it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would
|
|
accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was
|
|
satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she
|
|
had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the
|
|
second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her
|
|
evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
|
|
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
|
|
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.
|
|
|
|
He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was
|
|
happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
|
|
besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
|
|
own life.
|
|
|
|
It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.
|
|
Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The
|
|
children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all
|
|
over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.
|
|
|
|
"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said,
|
|
when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,
|
|
while she held a little levee on that last evening.
|
|
|
|
She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when
|
|
his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and
|
|
see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if
|
|
you do, for I want them all to know my friend."
|
|
|
|
"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager
|
|
expression which she did not see.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
|
|
commencement as something new."
|
|
|
|
"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered
|
|
tone.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like you to see
|
|
him."
|
|
|
|
Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure
|
|
in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.
|
|
Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more
|
|
than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to
|
|
look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,
|
|
and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been
|
|
for Tina on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her.
|
|
Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her
|
|
face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and
|
|
his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual
|
|
expression, as he said cordially...
|
|
|
|
"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
|
|
success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that, he
|
|
shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.
|
|
|
|
But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the
|
|
tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy
|
|
at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little
|
|
child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head
|
|
on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search
|
|
of something that he could not find.
|
|
|
|
"It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a
|
|
sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the
|
|
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled
|
|
heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened
|
|
his Plato.
|
|
|
|
He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a
|
|
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
|
|
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.
|
|
|
|
Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and
|
|
thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory
|
|
of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her
|
|
company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone,
|
|
and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend
|
|
worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."
|
|
|
|
|
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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
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HEARTACHE
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Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose
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that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with
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the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his
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friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr.
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and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him
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with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but
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fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.
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"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early
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tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he
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put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.
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He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up
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the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid,
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successful boy anything, and answered warmly...
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"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail
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the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."
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Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic,
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"Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?"
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Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and
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having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were
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going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her
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answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy
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wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at
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Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
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further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart
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figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about
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and run away.
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"Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within
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speaking distance.
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"I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not
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be called lover-like.
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She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not,
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and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly
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about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road
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into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he
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walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now
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and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from
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one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
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hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"
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"I intend to."
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Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
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looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
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moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No,
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Teddy. Please don't!"
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"I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it
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out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting
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flushed and excited all at once.
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"Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort
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of patience.
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Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it
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out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
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characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now
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and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady...
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"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've
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been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me.
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Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go
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on so any longer."
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"I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand..." began Jo,
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finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
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"I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they
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mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits
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just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an
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undeniable fact.
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"I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away
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to keep you from it if I could."
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"I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you
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all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards
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and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I
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hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was
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a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while
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he cleared his 'confounded throat'.
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"You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful
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to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you
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as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it
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would be a lie to say I do when I don't."
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"Really, truly, Jo?"
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He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with
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a look that she did not soon forget.
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"Really, truly, dear."
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They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words
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fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
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if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.
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So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still
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that Jo was frightened.
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"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it
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would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help
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it. You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other
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people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she
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softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted
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her so long ago.
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"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't
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believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was
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the decided answer.
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There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow
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by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said
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very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want
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to tell you something."
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He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in
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a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!"
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"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.
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"That you love that old man."
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"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
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"That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you
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love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if
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he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark
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in his eyes.
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Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she
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too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't
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old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got,
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next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I
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know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least
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idea of loving him or anybody else."
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"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"
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"You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
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trouble."
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"I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never!
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Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.
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"What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more
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unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to
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tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make
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you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which
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proved that she knew nothing about love.
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Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on
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the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile,
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and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was
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not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how
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could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes
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full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or
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two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his
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head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed
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to grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with
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Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick
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tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we
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were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but
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Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.
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"Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect
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saint, for you could make me anything you like."
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"No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by
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such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll
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be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash."
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"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.
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"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored
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Jo, almost at her wit's end.
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"I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible
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view'. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe
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you've got any heart."
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"I wish I hadn't."
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There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen,
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Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he
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said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously
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wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it.
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Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get
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on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"
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Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength
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of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided
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that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to
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do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.
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"I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that
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I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly.
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"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning
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with indignation at the very idea.
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"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while,
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and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a
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fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward
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and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we
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can't help it even now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society
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and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on
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without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and
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everything would be horrid!"
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"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to
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this prophetic burst.
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"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm
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happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it
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up for any mortal man."
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"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come
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a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him
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tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your
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way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover
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cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed
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comical, if his face had not been so tragic.
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"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love
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him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo,
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losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be
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reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't
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give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend,
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but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for
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both of us--so now!"
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That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he
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did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,
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saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo."
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"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.
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"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.
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For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank
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toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a
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young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort
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who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a
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melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and
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coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time
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up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and
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unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip
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the trouble which he carried in his heart.
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"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent
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state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she
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went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,
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and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr.
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Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth,
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perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her.
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Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think
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it's dreadful."
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Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went
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straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then
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broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind
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old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach.
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He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving
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Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better
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than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and
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resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's
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parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.
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When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather
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met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very
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successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the
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twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the
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old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to
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listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed
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like love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to
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his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking
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in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her
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sister, for he played the '_Sonata Pathetique_', and played it as he
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never did before.
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"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry.
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Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart
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was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.
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Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several
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minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull
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Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, "Jo, dear, come in. I
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want you."
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Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he
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listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and
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the musician sat silent in the dark.
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"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped
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his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad
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shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know."
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No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?"
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"Jo herself."
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"Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather's hands
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with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his
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man's pride could not bear a man's pity.
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"Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of
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it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. "You won't care to
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stay at home now, perhaps?"
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"I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing
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her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie
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in a defiant tone.
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"Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the
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girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away
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for a time. Where will you go?"
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"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me," and Laurie got up with a
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reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear.
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"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why
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not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"
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"I can't."
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"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
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through college."
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"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the
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room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.
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"I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready and glad to go
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with you, anywhere in the world."
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"Who, Sir?" stopping to listen.
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"Myself."
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Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
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huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--Grandfather--"
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"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before,
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once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,
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just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be
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carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,
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as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before
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him.
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"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
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interest in face or voice.
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"There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you
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should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here
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will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do
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almost everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and
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can be off at any time."
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"But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you at your age,"
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began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to
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go alone, if he went at all.
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The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to
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prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him
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that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So,
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stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would
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leave behind him, he said stoutly, "Bless your soul, I'm not
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superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my
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old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as
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sitting in a chair."
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A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,
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or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "I
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don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel
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happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with
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you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in
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my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit
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them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you
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will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your
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heart's content."
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Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the
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world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the
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old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken
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heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly
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appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a
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spiritless tone, "Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go
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or what I do."
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"It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but
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I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie."
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"Anything you like, Sir."
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"Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll
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come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm
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much mistaken."
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Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was
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hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,
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they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore
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himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody,
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irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress
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and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided
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Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a
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tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
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heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of
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his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to
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attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a
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relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very
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uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was
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going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he
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smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad
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superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was
|
|
unalterable.
|
|
|
|
When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
|
|
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This
|
|
gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did
|
|
for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with
|
|
a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going
|
|
very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the
|
|
afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a
|
|
minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look
|
|
round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above
|
|
him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal
|
|
eloquent and pathetic.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Jo, can't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"
|
|
|
|
That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself
|
|
up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another
|
|
word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the
|
|
curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as
|
|
if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a
|
|
look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
|
|
|
|
BETH'S SECRET
|
|
|
|
When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in
|
|
Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
|
|
gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by
|
|
absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she
|
|
saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in
|
|
the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
|
|
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
|
|
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
|
|
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
|
|
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one
|
|
appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo
|
|
for a time forgot her fear.
|
|
|
|
But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety
|
|
returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been
|
|
forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip,
|
|
Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from
|
|
home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and
|
|
as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took
|
|
Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open
|
|
air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale
|
|
cheeks.
|
|
|
|
It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people
|
|
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
|
|
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
|
|
for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and
|
|
went, quite unconscious of the interest they exited in those about
|
|
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the
|
|
feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
|
|
separation was not far away.
|
|
|
|
They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves
|
|
and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
|
|
very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her
|
|
heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there
|
|
seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to
|
|
speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not
|
|
seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows
|
|
grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home,
|
|
believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She
|
|
wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and
|
|
what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when
|
|
she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds
|
|
blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.
|
|
|
|
One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still,
|
|
and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying
|
|
to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she
|
|
could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin,
|
|
and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells
|
|
they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever
|
|
that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively
|
|
tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a
|
|
minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth
|
|
was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for
|
|
her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you,
|
|
but I couldn't."
|
|
|
|
There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even
|
|
tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker
|
|
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about
|
|
her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.
|
|
|
|
"I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't
|
|
hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don't be troubled
|
|
about me, because it's best, indeed it is."
|
|
|
|
"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
|
|
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing
|
|
to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no
|
|
part in Beth's trouble.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to
|
|
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But
|
|
when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was
|
|
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
|
|
Jo."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you?
|
|
How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"
|
|
|
|
Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
|
|
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
|
|
goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure, no one
|
|
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish
|
|
to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away,
|
|
and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then."
|
|
|
|
"And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
|
|
couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.
|
|
|
|
Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
|
|
and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
|
|
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while."
|
|
|
|
"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as
|
|
innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is so good to me,
|
|
how can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my
|
|
brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime."
|
|
|
|
"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they
|
|
would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I
|
|
don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well."
|
|
|
|
"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and
|
|
feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide,
|
|
Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."
|
|
|
|
"It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
|
|
young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against
|
|
it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it
|
|
can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me,"
|
|
cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously
|
|
submissive than Beth's.
|
|
|
|
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows
|
|
itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than
|
|
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the
|
|
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
|
|
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
|
|
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of
|
|
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
|
|
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She
|
|
did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
|
|
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
|
|
from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He
|
|
draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for
|
|
life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be
|
|
willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
|
|
great sorrow broke over them together.
|
|
|
|
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this
|
|
when we go home?"
|
|
|
|
"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed
|
|
to her that Beth changed every day.
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are often
|
|
blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for
|
|
me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg
|
|
has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father
|
|
and Mother, won't you Jo?"
|
|
|
|
"If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that
|
|
it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying
|
|
to speak cheerfully.
|
|
|
|
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't
|
|
know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you,
|
|
because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I
|
|
have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not
|
|
like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I
|
|
grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't
|
|
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
|
|
at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and
|
|
the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems
|
|
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."
|
|
|
|
Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the
|
|
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew
|
|
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it
|
|
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little
|
|
gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to
|
|
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth,
|
|
and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,
|
|
dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt
|
|
comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and
|
|
remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
|
|
|
|
"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than
|
|
the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,
|
|
confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and
|
|
Mother said they reminded her of me--busy, quaker-colored creatures,
|
|
always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song
|
|
of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm
|
|
and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the
|
|
turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up
|
|
among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear
|
|
little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and
|
|
no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I
|
|
shall see her again, but she seems so far away."
|
|
|
|
"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
|
|
see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
|
|
began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change
|
|
was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
|
|
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
|
|
|
|
"Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of
|
|
that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait.
|
|
We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide
|
|
will go out easily, if you help me."
|
|
|
|
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss,
|
|
she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
|
|
|
|
She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for
|
|
Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from
|
|
seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying
|
|
how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she
|
|
would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father
|
|
stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came
|
|
in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went
|
|
to comfort her without a word.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
|
|
|
|
NEW IMPRESSIONS
|
|
|
|
At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice
|
|
may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the
|
|
wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is
|
|
bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined
|
|
with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.
|
|
Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes
|
|
worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a
|
|
carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome
|
|
Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all
|
|
drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing
|
|
the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor
|
|
Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as
|
|
varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low
|
|
basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of
|
|
dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from
|
|
overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch
|
|
behind.
|
|
|
|
Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with
|
|
his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.
|
|
He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the
|
|
independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs
|
|
of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in
|
|
black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange
|
|
flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy
|
|
him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the
|
|
young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at
|
|
some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade
|
|
and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and
|
|
listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach
|
|
toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up,
|
|
as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came
|
|
rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in
|
|
blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his
|
|
hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy,
|
|
dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great
|
|
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps,
|
|
lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these
|
|
'mad English'.
|
|
|
|
"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,
|
|
and here I am."
|
|
|
|
"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?"
|
|
|
|
"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but
|
|
you were out."
|
|
|
|
"I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in and we can
|
|
talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.
|
|
Flo's saving up for tonight."
|
|
|
|
"What happens then, a ball?"
|
|
|
|
"A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and
|
|
they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt
|
|
will be charmed."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his
|
|
arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her
|
|
parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her
|
|
infinite satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.
|
|
The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever
|
|
been there?"
|
|
|
|
"Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it."
|
|
|
|
"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
|
|
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has
|
|
settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse
|
|
him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally."
|
|
|
|
"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in
|
|
Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.
|
|
|
|
"Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each
|
|
suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he
|
|
enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see
|
|
me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he
|
|
added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the
|
|
Place Napoleon in the old city.
|
|
|
|
"The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are
|
|
delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my
|
|
delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It's
|
|
going to the Church of St. John."
|
|
|
|
While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their
|
|
canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some
|
|
brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt
|
|
a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could
|
|
not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside
|
|
her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but
|
|
now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired
|
|
and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver
|
|
than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She
|
|
couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she
|
|
shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away
|
|
across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.
|
|
|
|
"Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in
|
|
quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
|
|
|
|
"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is
|
|
charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an
|
|
admiring look.
|
|
|
|
She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy
|
|
her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he
|
|
promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was
|
|
'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the
|
|
head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded
|
|
indifferent in spite of the look.
|
|
|
|
"If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she
|
|
thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying
|
|
meantime to seem quite easy and gay.
|
|
|
|
At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins
|
|
to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road
|
|
between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.
|
|
|
|
"Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home,
|
|
but they all say 'stay'. So I do, for I shall never have another
|
|
chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.
|
|
|
|
"I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is
|
|
a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and
|
|
enjoying so much, my dear."
|
|
|
|
He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said
|
|
that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened,
|
|
for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her
|
|
that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
|
|
Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her
|
|
scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing
|
|
from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'.
|
|
|
|
Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from
|
|
blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the
|
|
morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said
|
|
Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of
|
|
splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.
|
|
While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs
|
|
to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,
|
|
with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had
|
|
wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and
|
|
approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and
|
|
manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of
|
|
that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call
|
|
elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb
|
|
in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman
|
|
of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed
|
|
itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness
|
|
was unspoiled by foreign polish.
|
|
|
|
Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,
|
|
but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a
|
|
pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,
|
|
which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her
|
|
cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure
|
|
in the pleasant scene.
|
|
|
|
As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved
|
|
her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
|
|
here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the
|
|
fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa
|
|
Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far
|
|
out to sea which they say is Corsica?"
|
|
|
|
"I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm.
|
|
|
|
"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy,
|
|
feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the
|
|
island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting
|
|
in his sight.
|
|
|
|
"Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what
|
|
you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating
|
|
herself, ready for a good talk.
|
|
|
|
But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her
|
|
questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the
|
|
Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove
|
|
home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left
|
|
them, promising to return in the evening.
|
|
|
|
It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.
|
|
Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had
|
|
seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome
|
|
and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to
|
|
find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most
|
|
of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and
|
|
pretty woman.
|
|
|
|
Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them
|
|
on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple
|
|
dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh
|
|
flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were
|
|
both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist
|
|
sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique
|
|
coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear
|
|
heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon
|
|
such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep
|
|
our hearts merry with their artless vanities.
|
|
|
|
"I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said
|
|
Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and
|
|
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white
|
|
shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair
|
|
she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and
|
|
curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.
|
|
|
|
"It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a
|
|
fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or
|
|
braid, as the latest style commanded.
|
|
|
|
Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped
|
|
her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
|
|
shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she
|
|
surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and
|
|
chassed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.
|
|
|
|
"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the
|
|
real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only
|
|
had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said,
|
|
surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.
|
|
|
|
In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as
|
|
she glided away. She seldom ran--it did not suit her style, she
|
|
thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate
|
|
than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon
|
|
while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the
|
|
chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought
|
|
better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed
|
|
of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so
|
|
happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came
|
|
in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant
|
|
window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress,
|
|
the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as
|
|
a well-placed statue.
|
|
|
|
"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she
|
|
liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.
|
|
|
|
"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too
|
|
looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on
|
|
the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain
|
|
Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.
|
|
|
|
"Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you
|
|
didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said Laurie, handing her
|
|
a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily
|
|
passed it in Cardiglia's window.
|
|
|
|
"How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were
|
|
coming I'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty
|
|
as this, I'm afraid."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you. It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he
|
|
added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.
|
|
|
|
"Please don't."
|
|
|
|
"I thought you liked that sort of thing."
|
|
|
|
"Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness
|
|
better."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her
|
|
gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to
|
|
do when they went to parties together at home.
|
|
|
|
The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was
|
|
such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable
|
|
Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having
|
|
no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their
|
|
Christmas ball.
|
|
|
|
A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk
|
|
with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with
|
|
a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted
|
|
himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a
|
|
German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely
|
|
about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private
|
|
secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the
|
|
world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout
|
|
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,
|
|
and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little
|
|
family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed,
|
|
shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto,
|
|
and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set
|
|
of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while
|
|
mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly
|
|
when they danced with their daughters.
|
|
|
|
Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the
|
|
stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well,
|
|
she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a
|
|
ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when
|
|
young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to
|
|
rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis
|
|
girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim
|
|
papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her
|
|
friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it
|
|
permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who
|
|
her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the
|
|
band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap
|
|
the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know
|
|
it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than
|
|
described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to
|
|
dance?"
|
|
|
|
"One usually does at a ball."
|
|
|
|
Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as
|
|
fast as possible.
|
|
|
|
"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"
|
|
|
|
"I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances devinely, but he
|
|
will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the
|
|
name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be
|
|
trifled with.
|
|
|
|
"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support...
|
|
|
|
A daughter of the gods,
|
|
Devinely tall, and most devinely fair,"
|
|
|
|
was all the satisfaction she got, however.
|
|
|
|
The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy
|
|
was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the
|
|
while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie
|
|
resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo,
|
|
without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of
|
|
forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself
|
|
till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She
|
|
showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled
|
|
instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka
|
|
redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she
|
|
galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with
|
|
an actual expression of relief.
|
|
|
|
That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long
|
|
while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between
|
|
the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a
|
|
good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed
|
|
unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with
|
|
pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit
|
|
and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very
|
|
naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before
|
|
the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to
|
|
make a very charming woman'.
|
|
|
|
It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took
|
|
possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,
|
|
hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and
|
|
banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who
|
|
couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was
|
|
dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young
|
|
giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor
|
|
with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin
|
|
train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating
|
|
steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the
|
|
ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with
|
|
glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and
|
|
introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The
|
|
boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he
|
|
'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he
|
|
flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails
|
|
waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the
|
|
music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his
|
|
fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.
|
|
|
|
Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more
|
|
graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time
|
|
to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as
|
|
indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished
|
|
her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was
|
|
ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.
|
|
|
|
It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections
|
|
find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young
|
|
blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the
|
|
enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up
|
|
look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring
|
|
her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I
|
|
thought that would do him good!"
|
|
|
|
"You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he
|
|
fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.
|
|
|
|
"My rouge won't come off." and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and
|
|
showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
|
|
outright.
|
|
|
|
"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress
|
|
that had blown over his knee.
|
|
|
|
"Illusion."
|
|
|
|
"Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and
|
|
you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!"
|
|
|
|
"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."
|
|
|
|
"None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than
|
|
compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."
|
|
|
|
Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd
|
|
sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had
|
|
lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,
|
|
as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any
|
|
signs of subjection.
|
|
|
|
"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical
|
|
look.
|
|
|
|
"As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly
|
|
explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
|
|
wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
|
|
|
|
"Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession,
|
|
the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and
|
|
helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.
|
|
|
|
Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered,
|
|
"Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I study as well as
|
|
play, and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why,
|
|
tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making
|
|
the most of my poor little things."
|
|
|
|
Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good
|
|
taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both
|
|
admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of
|
|
opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.
|
|
Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up
|
|
her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of
|
|
the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought
|
|
this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions
|
|
which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
|
|
|
|
ON THE SHELF
|
|
|
|
In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,
|
|
when 'Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto. In America, as everyone
|
|
knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy
|
|
their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually
|
|
abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion
|
|
almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet.
|
|
Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as
|
|
soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim,
|
|
as did a very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but
|
|
no one takes any notice of me because I'm married."
|
|
|
|
Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience
|
|
this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little
|
|
world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired
|
|
and beloved than ever.
|
|
|
|
As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
|
|
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
|
|
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded
|
|
over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the
|
|
tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the
|
|
kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the
|
|
wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored
|
|
his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time,
|
|
supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.
|
|
But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked
|
|
worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the
|
|
house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life 'aisy', kept
|
|
him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was
|
|
bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily
|
|
in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush!
|
|
They are just asleep after worrying all day." If he proposed a little
|
|
amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at
|
|
a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a
|
|
decided--"Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken
|
|
by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to
|
|
and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the
|
|
frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped,
|
|
if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his
|
|
paper of an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping list and
|
|
Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only
|
|
interested in domestic news.
|
|
|
|
The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of
|
|
his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual 'hushing' made
|
|
him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred
|
|
precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and
|
|
when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles
|
|
do--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and
|
|
gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running
|
|
over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty,
|
|
and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs.
|
|
Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable,
|
|
and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always
|
|
bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty
|
|
of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
|
|
|
|
John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so
|
|
lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and
|
|
enjoyed his neighbor's society.
|
|
|
|
Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a
|
|
relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in
|
|
the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But
|
|
by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep
|
|
at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John,
|
|
and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite
|
|
in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the
|
|
fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured
|
|
because he did not know that she wanted him without being told,
|
|
entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain.
|
|
She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that
|
|
unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally
|
|
experience when domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs
|
|
them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American
|
|
women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no
|
|
muscle.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly.
|
|
John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded
|
|
wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances.
|
|
Well, the babies love me, they don't care if I am thin and pale and
|
|
haven't time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John
|
|
will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"
|
|
|
|
To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a
|
|
crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which
|
|
soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as
|
|
politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss
|
|
interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him.
|
|
Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one
|
|
day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping
|
|
spirits had not escaped her observation.
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need
|
|
advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed,"
|
|
replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured
|
|
air.
|
|
|
|
"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.
|
|
|
|
"He's away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is
|
|
continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should
|
|
have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish,
|
|
even the best of them."
|
|
|
|
"So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong
|
|
yourself."
|
|
|
|
"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you neglect him?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, Mother, I thought you'd take my part!"
|
|
|
|
"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours,
|
|
Meg."
|
|
|
|
"I don't see how."
|
|
|
|
"Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you
|
|
made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only
|
|
leisure time?"
|
|
|
|
"No, but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."
|
|
|
|
"I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite
|
|
freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who blames as well as
|
|
Mother who sympathizes?"
|
|
|
|
"Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often
|
|
feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to
|
|
me for everything."
|
|
|
|
Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little
|
|
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly
|
|
together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than
|
|
ever.
|
|
|
|
"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make--forgotten
|
|
your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very
|
|
natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be
|
|
remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw
|
|
you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and
|
|
John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks,
|
|
but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."
|
|
|
|
"I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous,
|
|
and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want
|
|
him, and I don't know how to tell him without words."
|
|
|
|
"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing
|
|
for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always
|
|
in the nursery."
|
|
|
|
"Oughtn't I to be there?"
|
|
|
|
"Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you
|
|
are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as
|
|
well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband for children, don't shut
|
|
him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is
|
|
there as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that
|
|
he has a part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it
|
|
will be better for you all."
|
|
|
|
"You really think so, Mother?"
|
|
|
|
"I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice unless
|
|
I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on
|
|
just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted
|
|
myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had
|
|
refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I
|
|
struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I
|
|
nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about
|
|
you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly
|
|
managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake,
|
|
and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the
|
|
secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from
|
|
the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let
|
|
domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part
|
|
alone in many things, but at home we work together, always."
|
|
|
|
"It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and
|
|
children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I'll do anything
|
|
you say."
|
|
|
|
"You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd
|
|
let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs
|
|
training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have
|
|
often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse,
|
|
and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more
|
|
housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and
|
|
John would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as
|
|
busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get
|
|
dismal there is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in
|
|
whatever John likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange
|
|
ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a
|
|
bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and
|
|
educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all
|
|
affects you and yours."
|
|
|
|
"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask
|
|
questions about politics and things."
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of
|
|
whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he
|
|
doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers."
|
|
|
|
"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I
|
|
thought I was right, and he never said anything."
|
|
|
|
"He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy.
|
|
This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow
|
|
apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the
|
|
first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it.
|
|
And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years
|
|
of the little lives given to them to train. Don't let John be a
|
|
stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and
|
|
happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and
|
|
through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should.
|
|
Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachment, act upon it if it
|
|
seems good, and God bless you all."
|
|
|
|
Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the
|
|
first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of
|
|
course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as
|
|
they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they
|
|
wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not
|
|
so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by
|
|
an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi
|
|
inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character, we won't call
|
|
it obstinacy, and when he made up his little mind to have or to do
|
|
anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change
|
|
that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be
|
|
taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was
|
|
too soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when
|
|
he undertook to 'wrastle' with 'Parpar', he always got the worst of it,
|
|
yet like the Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and
|
|
loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all
|
|
Mamma's love pats.
|
|
|
|
A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social
|
|
evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in
|
|
order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early,
|
|
that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately
|
|
Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that
|
|
night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told
|
|
stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all
|
|
in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after Daisy had gone to
|
|
byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty
|
|
Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake
|
|
expression of countenance.
|
|
|
|
"Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives
|
|
poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the
|
|
well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.
|
|
|
|
"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.
|
|
|
|
"No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go
|
|
bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"
|
|
|
|
"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the
|
|
desired day.
|
|
|
|
Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran
|
|
down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow
|
|
in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and
|
|
said with pleased surprise, "Why, little mother, how gay we are
|
|
tonight. Do you expect company?"
|
|
|
|
"Only you, dear."
|
|
|
|
"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I'm tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always
|
|
make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why
|
|
shouldn't I when I have the time?"
|
|
|
|
"I do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.
|
|
|
|
"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty
|
|
again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.
|
|
|
|
"Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes
|
|
right. I drink your health, dear." and John sipped his tea with an air
|
|
of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as
|
|
he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little
|
|
voice was heard, saying impatiently...
|
|
|
|
"Opy doy. Me's tummin!"
|
|
|
|
"It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he
|
|
is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,"
|
|
said Meg, answering the call.
|
|
|
|
"Mornin' now," announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his
|
|
long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing
|
|
gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the 'cakies' with loving
|
|
glances.
|
|
|
|
"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor
|
|
Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."
|
|
|
|
"Me loves Parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal
|
|
knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to
|
|
Meg...
|
|
|
|
"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do
|
|
it, or he will never learn to mind you."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, of course. Come, Demi," and Meg led her son away, feeling a
|
|
strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her,
|
|
laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as
|
|
soon as they reached the nursery.
|
|
|
|
Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him
|
|
a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more
|
|
promenades till morning.
|
|
|
|
"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and
|
|
regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
|
|
|
|
Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when
|
|
the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies
|
|
by boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar."
|
|
|
|
"Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the
|
|
engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child
|
|
learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long
|
|
enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put
|
|
him in his bed and leave him, Meg."
|
|
|
|
"He won't stay there, he never does unless I sit by him."
|
|
|
|
"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma
|
|
bids you."
|
|
|
|
"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted
|
|
'cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
|
|
|
|
"You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go
|
|
yourself."
|
|
|
|
"Go 'way, me don't love Parpar." and Demi retired to his mother's
|
|
skirts for protection.
|
|
|
|
But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to
|
|
the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit
|
|
with dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at
|
|
hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a
|
|
strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his
|
|
wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the
|
|
way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled
|
|
out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously
|
|
caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which
|
|
lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out,
|
|
when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal
|
|
exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post
|
|
which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no
|
|
lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of
|
|
the fire enlivened the 'big dark' which Demi regarded with curiosity
|
|
rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he
|
|
howled dismally for 'Marmar', as his angry passions subsided, and
|
|
recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat.
|
|
The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's
|
|
heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly...
|
|
|
|
"Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John."
|
|
|
|
"No, my dear. I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and
|
|
he must, if I stay here all night."
|
|
|
|
"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for
|
|
deserting her boy.
|
|
|
|
"No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter
|
|
is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't
|
|
interfere, I'll manage him."
|
|
|
|
"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."
|
|
|
|
"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go
|
|
down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."
|
|
|
|
When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never
|
|
regretted her docility.
|
|
|
|
"Please let me kiss him once, John?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest,
|
|
for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."
|
|
|
|
Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it
|
|
was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom
|
|
of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
|
|
|
|
"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him
|
|
up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to
|
|
the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.
|
|
|
|
But he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes
|
|
opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying
|
|
with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."
|
|
|
|
Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which
|
|
followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible
|
|
accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi
|
|
lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a
|
|
subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and
|
|
holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered
|
|
with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held,
|
|
John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed
|
|
its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that
|
|
tussle with his son than with his whole day's work.
|
|
|
|
As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to
|
|
herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "I
|
|
never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does
|
|
know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting
|
|
too much for me."
|
|
|
|
When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful
|
|
wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a
|
|
bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the
|
|
election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a
|
|
revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions,
|
|
knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't
|
|
keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon
|
|
appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then
|
|
explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply
|
|
interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from
|
|
wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In
|
|
her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as
|
|
mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling
|
|
each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and
|
|
when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought
|
|
diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what we are coming to."
|
|
|
|
John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty
|
|
little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it
|
|
with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
|
|
|
|
"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like
|
|
millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding
|
|
aloud, "That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"
|
|
|
|
"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater
|
|
bonnet."
|
|
|
|
"I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of
|
|
the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?"
|
|
|
|
"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so,"
|
|
and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an
|
|
air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.
|
|
|
|
"It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks
|
|
young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great
|
|
detriment of the rosebud under the chin.
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new
|
|
concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will
|
|
you, please?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You
|
|
have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall
|
|
enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous
|
|
and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and
|
|
less care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to
|
|
things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just
|
|
to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before
|
|
my time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your
|
|
sake as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately,
|
|
and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't
|
|
object, I hope?"
|
|
|
|
Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little
|
|
bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is
|
|
that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which
|
|
gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all
|
|
Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of
|
|
labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for
|
|
accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while
|
|
Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of
|
|
wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential
|
|
conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and
|
|
John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts
|
|
came to the Brookes' now, and everyone found the little house a
|
|
cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even
|
|
Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant
|
|
here, it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with
|
|
wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it
|
|
in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no
|
|
riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own,
|
|
where there was no place for her.
|
|
|
|
This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had
|
|
found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to
|
|
use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual
|
|
helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.
|
|
This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent
|
|
to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding
|
|
loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them,
|
|
undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through
|
|
fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true
|
|
sense of the good old Saxon word, the 'house-band', and learning, as
|
|
Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor
|
|
the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
|
|
|
|
LAZY LAURENCE
|
|
|
|
Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He
|
|
was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed
|
|
to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a
|
|
part. He rather missed the 'petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a
|
|
taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from
|
|
strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls
|
|
at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very
|
|
glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the
|
|
representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she
|
|
would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society and
|
|
were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice
|
|
no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while
|
|
apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were
|
|
half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each
|
|
other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in
|
|
hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to
|
|
please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he
|
|
gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly
|
|
women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort
|
|
of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as
|
|
possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind
|
|
word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be
|
|
generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she
|
|
would have taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not
|
|
change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the
|
|
keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful,
|
|
half-scornful surprise.
|
|
|
|
"All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at
|
|
home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa
|
|
to sketch, will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely
|
|
day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.
|
|
|
|
"Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered
|
|
slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so
|
|
you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves
|
|
nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids,
|
|
which were a weak point with Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"Then I'll go with pleasure." and he put out his hand for her
|
|
sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp...
|
|
|
|
"Don't trouble yourself. It's no exertion to me, but you don't look
|
|
equal to it."
|
|
|
|
Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran
|
|
downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins
|
|
himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and
|
|
fall asleep on his perch.
|
|
|
|
The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie
|
|
was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an
|
|
inquiring air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on
|
|
together in the most amicable manner.
|
|
|
|
It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque
|
|
scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery,
|
|
whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a
|
|
bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket
|
|
over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among
|
|
the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with
|
|
panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a
|
|
capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with
|
|
a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the
|
|
quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on
|
|
the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky
|
|
foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones
|
|
fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the
|
|
Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.
|
|
|
|
Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer
|
|
roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust
|
|
themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to
|
|
passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and
|
|
feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where
|
|
seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool
|
|
grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every
|
|
fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to
|
|
smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped
|
|
the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of
|
|
the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean,
|
|
and the white-walled city on its shore.
|
|
|
|
"This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such
|
|
roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a
|
|
luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.
|
|
|
|
"No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his
|
|
mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that
|
|
grew just beyond his reach.
|
|
|
|
"Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy,
|
|
gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall
|
|
behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he
|
|
stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in
|
|
the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and
|
|
he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy,
|
|
when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for
|
|
romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny
|
|
red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones
|
|
like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him
|
|
were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal
|
|
wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for
|
|
himself, but the next instant his American common sense got the better
|
|
of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard
|
|
since he came.
|
|
|
|
"It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers," she
|
|
said, thinking her speech amused him.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did
|
|
it in earnest.
|
|
|
|
"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently,
|
|
as she settled herself on a rustic seat.
|
|
|
|
"Very soon."
|
|
|
|
"You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."
|
|
|
|
"I dare say, short answers save trouble."
|
|
|
|
"He expects you, and you really ought to go."
|
|
|
|
"Hospitable creature! I know it."
|
|
|
|
"Then why don't you do it?"
|
|
|
|
"Natural depravity, I suppose."
|
|
|
|
"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked
|
|
severe.
|
|
|
|
"Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I
|
|
might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it
|
|
better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently," and Laurie
|
|
composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.
|
|
|
|
Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of
|
|
resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture 'that boy' and in
|
|
a minute she began again.
|
|
|
|
"What are you doing just now?"
|
|
|
|
"Watching lizards."
|
|
|
|
"No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"
|
|
|
|
"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."
|
|
|
|
"How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars and I will only
|
|
allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a
|
|
figure."
|
|
|
|
"With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or
|
|
three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest
|
|
a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it 'Dolce far
|
|
niente'."
|
|
|
|
"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard,"
|
|
said Amy in her most energetic tone.
|
|
|
|
"What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an
|
|
air of entire satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping
|
|
to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.
|
|
|
|
"As usual, 'Go away, Teddy. I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but
|
|
the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the
|
|
utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed
|
|
yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them
|
|
before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on
|
|
Laurie's face--a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and
|
|
regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless
|
|
expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic
|
|
pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in
|
|
the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for
|
|
he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.
|
|
|
|
"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she
|
|
said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark
|
|
stone.
|
|
|
|
"Wish I was!"
|
|
|
|
"That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so
|
|
changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid,
|
|
half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.
|
|
|
|
Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated
|
|
to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used
|
|
to say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am."
|
|
|
|
That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry
|
|
her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the
|
|
cordial tone in which she said...
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I
|
|
fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost
|
|
your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into
|
|
some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of
|
|
a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the
|
|
grass here and 'let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in
|
|
the sofa corner and told secrets."
|
|
|
|
Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse
|
|
himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay
|
|
there.
|
|
|
|
"I'm all ready for the secrets." and he glanced up with a decided
|
|
expression of interest in his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I've none to tell. You may begin."
|
|
|
|
"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some
|
|
news from home.."
|
|
|
|
"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I
|
|
fancied Jo would send you volumes."
|
|
|
|
"She's very busy. I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular,
|
|
you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he
|
|
asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he
|
|
had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.
|
|
|
|
"Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took
|
|
all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt
|
|
too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."
|
|
|
|
"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"
|
|
|
|
"That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy
|
|
can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a
|
|
common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."
|
|
|
|
"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"
|
|
|
|
"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get
|
|
the chance."
|
|
|
|
It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity
|
|
becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie
|
|
smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose
|
|
when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.
|
|
|
|
"Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."
|
|
|
|
Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her
|
|
downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going
|
|
to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't promise to answer."
|
|
|
|
"Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world
|
|
enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred
|
|
and you last year, and it's my private opinion that if he had not been
|
|
called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come
|
|
of it, hey?"
|
|
|
|
"That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips would
|
|
smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed
|
|
that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.
|
|
|
|
"You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly
|
|
and grave all of a sudden.
|
|
|
|
"No."
|
|
|
|
"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees,
|
|
won't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Very likely."
|
|
|
|
"Then you are fond of old Fred?"
|
|
|
|
"I could be, if I tried."
|
|
|
|
"But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul,
|
|
what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I
|
|
fancied you'd like."
|
|
|
|
"He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy,
|
|
trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of
|
|
herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.
|
|
|
|
"I understand. Queens of society can't get on without money, so you
|
|
mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and
|
|
proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of
|
|
your mother's girls."
|
|
|
|
"True, nevertheless."
|
|
|
|
A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered
|
|
contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this
|
|
instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of
|
|
disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as
|
|
well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her
|
|
resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.
|
|
|
|
"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said
|
|
sharply.
|
|
|
|
"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."
|
|
|
|
"I could, if I tried." and she looked as if she would like doing it in
|
|
the most summary style.
|
|
|
|
"Try, then. I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having
|
|
someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.
|
|
|
|
"You'd be angry in five minutes."
|
|
|
|
"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are
|
|
as cool and soft as snow."
|
|
|
|
"You don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if
|
|
applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good
|
|
stirring up would prove it."
|
|
|
|
"Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said
|
|
when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or
|
|
a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees
|
|
with you."
|
|
|
|
Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the
|
|
apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and
|
|
began.
|
|
|
|
"Flo and I have got a new name for you. It's Lazy Laurence. How do you
|
|
like it?"
|
|
|
|
She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his
|
|
head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies."
|
|
|
|
"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"
|
|
|
|
"Pining to be told."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I despise you."
|
|
|
|
If she had even said 'I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he
|
|
would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad,
|
|
accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly...
|
|
|
|
"Why, if you please?"
|
|
|
|
"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are
|
|
faulty, lazy, and miserable."
|
|
|
|
"Strong language, mademoiselle."
|
|
|
|
"If you like it, I'll go on."
|
|
|
|
"Pray do, it's quite interesting."
|
|
|
|
"I thought you'd find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about
|
|
themselves."
|
|
|
|
"Am I selfish?" the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of
|
|
surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as
|
|
effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've
|
|
studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied with
|
|
you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but
|
|
waste time and money and disappoint your friends."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?"
|
|
|
|
"You don't look as if you'd had much. At any rate, you are none the
|
|
better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you
|
|
had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so
|
|
nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you
|
|
like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to
|
|
be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and
|
|
respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and
|
|
beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't
|
|
help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you
|
|
can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you
|
|
ought to be, you are only..." there she stopped, with a look that had
|
|
both pain and pity in it.
|
|
|
|
"Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the
|
|
sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a
|
|
wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured
|
|
expression replaced the former indifference.
|
|
|
|
"I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say
|
|
we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you
|
|
good, you laugh at us and won't listen, which proves how much your
|
|
flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the
|
|
exasperating martyr at her feet.
|
|
|
|
In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw,
|
|
and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "I
|
|
will be good, oh, I will be good!"
|
|
|
|
But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the
|
|
outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't you ashamed of a
|
|
hand like that? It's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if
|
|
it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers
|
|
for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see
|
|
there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one
|
|
Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"
|
|
|
|
"So do I!"
|
|
|
|
The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough
|
|
in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with
|
|
a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his
|
|
face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw
|
|
his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a
|
|
sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as
|
|
if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in
|
|
a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in
|
|
Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her.
|
|
She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled
|
|
the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the
|
|
wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome
|
|
hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence.
|
|
Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the
|
|
alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when
|
|
she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and
|
|
kind when she chose to make it so.
|
|
|
|
"I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren't
|
|
the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me.
|
|
But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they
|
|
should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps
|
|
they would understand the change better than I do."
|
|
|
|
"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as
|
|
touching as a broken one.
|
|
|
|
"They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding,
|
|
when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did
|
|
like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to
|
|
be sure of her facts this time.
|
|
|
|
"Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look
|
|
that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.
|
|
|
|
"I beg pardon, I thought..." and there she paused diplomatically.
|
|
|
|
"No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but
|
|
Jo," Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face
|
|
away as he spoke.
|
|
|
|
"I did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came
|
|
away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't be kind to you? Why,
|
|
I was sure she loved you dearly."
|
|
|
|
"She was kind, but not in the right way, and it's lucky for her she
|
|
didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It's
|
|
her fault though, and you may tell her so."
|
|
|
|
The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled
|
|
Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.
|
|
|
|
"I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross, but I
|
|
can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."
|
|
|
|
"Don't, that's her name for me!" and Laurie put up his hand with a
|
|
quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's half-kind,
|
|
half-reproachful tone. "Wait till you've tried it yourself," he added
|
|
in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.
|
|
|
|
"I'd take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn't be loved," said
|
|
Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.
|
|
|
|
Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well,
|
|
making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live
|
|
it down alone. Amy's lecture put the matter in a new light, and for
|
|
the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first
|
|
failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if
|
|
suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to
|
|
sleep again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do you think Jo
|
|
would despise me as you do?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't you do
|
|
something splendid, and make her love you?"
|
|
|
|
"I did my best, but it was no use."
|
|
|
|
"Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have
|
|
done, for your grandfather's sake. It would have been shameful to fail
|
|
after spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you
|
|
could do well."
|
|
|
|
"I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me," began Laurie,
|
|
leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.
|
|
|
|
"No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you good, and
|
|
proved that you could do something if you tried. If you'd only set
|
|
about another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty, happy self
|
|
again, and forget your trouble."
|
|
|
|
"That's impossible."
|
|
|
|
"Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, 'Much
|
|
she knows about such things'. I don't pretend to be wise, but I am
|
|
observing, and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm
|
|
interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies, and
|
|
though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit.
|
|
Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for
|
|
it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the
|
|
one you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake
|
|
up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."
|
|
|
|
Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring
|
|
on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had
|
|
been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,
|
|
merely saying, "How do you like that?"
|
|
|
|
He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it
|
|
was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless
|
|
face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the
|
|
little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.
|
|
|
|
"How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at
|
|
her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "Yes, that's me."
|
|
|
|
"As you are. This is as you were." and Amy laid another sketch beside
|
|
the one he held.
|
|
|
|
It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it
|
|
which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that
|
|
a sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked. Only a
|
|
rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and
|
|
every line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude
|
|
was full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued,
|
|
stood arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot
|
|
impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for
|
|
the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider's
|
|
breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly
|
|
arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that
|
|
contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the '_Dolce far Niente_'
|
|
sketch. Laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to the other,
|
|
Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and
|
|
accepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and
|
|
without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way...
|
|
|
|
"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all
|
|
looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced,
|
|
and I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my
|
|
portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."
|
|
|
|
"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I
|
|
congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon paradise'
|
|
that five o'clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?"
|
|
|
|
Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow
|
|
and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures
|
|
should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent
|
|
air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more
|
|
effacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his
|
|
manner, and said to herself...
|
|
|
|
"Now, I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad, if it
|
|
makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but it's true, and I can't take back a
|
|
word of it."
|
|
|
|
They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up
|
|
behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming
|
|
spirits. But both felt ill at ease. The friendly frankness was
|
|
disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their
|
|
apparent gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
|
|
|
|
"Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?" asked Amy, as they parted
|
|
at her aunt's door.
|
|
|
|
"Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle," and
|
|
Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which
|
|
became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say
|
|
quickly and warmly...
|
|
|
|
"No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd
|
|
rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental
|
|
salutations in France."
|
|
|
|
"Goodbye, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,
|
|
Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.
|
|
|
|
Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made
|
|
her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.
|
|
|
|
My Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within
|
|
yourself, for 'Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the best of
|
|
boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful
|
|
honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser.
|
|
Tell him so, with my congratulations.
|
|
|
|
Yours gratefully, Telemachus
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile. The
|
|
next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,
|
|
with an involuntary sigh, "Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY
|
|
|
|
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
|
|
|
|
When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,
|
|
and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
|
|
affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of
|
|
trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part
|
|
toward making that last year a happy one.
|
|
|
|
The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
|
|
gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano,
|
|
the little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books
|
|
found their way there, Mother's easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest
|
|
sketches, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,
|
|
to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,
|
|
that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with
|
|
the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of
|
|
concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears
|
|
as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful
|
|
letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands
|
|
that know no winter.
|
|
|
|
Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth,
|
|
tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet,
|
|
unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to
|
|
make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers
|
|
were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for
|
|
the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens
|
|
from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small
|
|
mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through
|
|
forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner
|
|
of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of
|
|
learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to
|
|
regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above
|
|
there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and
|
|
needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright
|
|
little faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and
|
|
the droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
|
|
|
|
The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look
|
|
round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her
|
|
sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and
|
|
sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from
|
|
the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as
|
|
applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a
|
|
paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn,
|
|
trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make
|
|
resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls
|
|
of those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's
|
|
religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence
|
|
to the words he spoke or read.
|
|
|
|
It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as
|
|
preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the
|
|
needle was 'so heavy', and put it down forever. Talking wearied her,
|
|
faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil
|
|
spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble
|
|
flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching
|
|
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced
|
|
to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the
|
|
bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A
|
|
sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with
|
|
death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion
|
|
over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck
|
|
of her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong, and though she said little,
|
|
those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim
|
|
called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,
|
|
trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed
|
|
the river.
|
|
|
|
Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when
|
|
you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
|
|
the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom
|
|
asked for anything, and 'tried not to be a trouble'. All day she
|
|
haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being
|
|
chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and
|
|
helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it
|
|
needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could
|
|
not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can
|
|
forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the
|
|
hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts
|
|
undoubtingly.
|
|
|
|
Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book,
|
|
heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her
|
|
lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the
|
|
transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too
|
|
deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was
|
|
trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the
|
|
life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music
|
|
she loved so well.
|
|
|
|
Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest
|
|
hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with
|
|
eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest
|
|
sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life--uneventful,
|
|
unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which 'smell sweet, and
|
|
blossom in the dust', the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on
|
|
earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible
|
|
to all.
|
|
|
|
One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find
|
|
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as
|
|
hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite,
|
|
Pilgrims's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's
|
|
hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made
|
|
her sure that tears had fallen on it.
|
|
|
|
"Poor Jo! She's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave. She
|
|
shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at
|
|
this", thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug,
|
|
with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell
|
|
apart.
|
|
|
|
MY BETH
|
|
|
|
Sitting patient in the shadow
|
|
Till the blessed light shall come,
|
|
A serene and saintly presence
|
|
Sanctifies our troubled home.
|
|
Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
|
|
Break like ripples on the strand
|
|
Of the deep and solemn river
|
|
Where her willing feet now stand.
|
|
|
|
O my sister, passing from me,
|
|
Out of human care and strife,
|
|
Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
|
|
Which have beautified your life.
|
|
Dear, bequeath me that great patience
|
|
Which has power to sustain
|
|
A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
|
|
In its prison-house of pain.
|
|
|
|
Give me, for I need it sorely,
|
|
Of that courage, wise and sweet,
|
|
Which has made the path of duty
|
|
Green beneath your willing feet.
|
|
Give me that unselfish nature,
|
|
That with charity devine
|
|
Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--
|
|
Meek heart, forgive me mine!
|
|
|
|
Thus our parting daily loseth
|
|
Something of its bitter pain,
|
|
And while learning this hard lesson,
|
|
My great loss becomes my gain.
|
|
For the touch of grief will render
|
|
My wild nature more serene,
|
|
Give to life new aspirations,
|
|
A new trust in the unseen.
|
|
|
|
Henceforth, safe across the river,
|
|
I shall see forever more
|
|
A beloved, household spirit
|
|
Waiting for me on the shore.
|
|
Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
|
|
Guardian angels shall become,
|
|
And the sister gone before me
|
|
By their hands shall lead me home.
|
|
|
|
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought
|
|
a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had
|
|
been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that
|
|
her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the
|
|
despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her
|
|
hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze,
|
|
and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.
|
|
|
|
"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew
|
|
you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with
|
|
wistful, humble earnestness.
|
|
|
|
"_Oh_, Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow
|
|
beside her sister's.
|
|
|
|
"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you
|
|
make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's too late to
|
|
begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves
|
|
me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."
|
|
|
|
"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let
|
|
you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you, that you'll be
|
|
more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."
|
|
|
|
"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall
|
|
be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take
|
|
my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone.
|
|
They will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone,
|
|
remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing
|
|
that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is
|
|
the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the
|
|
end so easy."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try, Beth." and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
|
|
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of
|
|
other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the
|
|
immortality of love.
|
|
|
|
So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
|
|
greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in
|
|
time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child,
|
|
clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother
|
|
guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up
|
|
to God.
|
|
|
|
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions,
|
|
or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many
|
|
parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply
|
|
as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the
|
|
dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first
|
|
breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving
|
|
look, one little sigh.
|
|
|
|
With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her
|
|
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
|
|
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic
|
|
patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent
|
|
joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom
|
|
full of dread.
|
|
|
|
When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
|
|
Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
|
|
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly
|
|
at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction
|
|
over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace
|
|
that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked
|
|
God that Beth was well at last.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
|
|
|
|
LEARNING TO FORGET
|
|
|
|
Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it
|
|
till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,
|
|
the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
|
|
themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act
|
|
upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the
|
|
credit of it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie
|
|
went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several
|
|
weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved
|
|
him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the
|
|
young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have
|
|
dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and
|
|
whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by
|
|
repeating the words that had made the deepest impression--"I despise
|
|
you." "Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."
|
|
|
|
Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
|
|
himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a
|
|
man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries
|
|
till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were
|
|
quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful
|
|
mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo
|
|
wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by
|
|
doing something which should prove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiled
|
|
his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was
|
|
quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid
|
|
blighted affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt
|
|
that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and still toil on'.
|
|
|
|
As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
|
|
resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem
|
|
which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.
|
|
Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless
|
|
and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical
|
|
friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish
|
|
himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music,
|
|
or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that
|
|
the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his
|
|
mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for
|
|
often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself
|
|
humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at
|
|
Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to
|
|
tragic composition for the time being.
|
|
|
|
Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,
|
|
but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
|
|
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
|
|
recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned
|
|
traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would
|
|
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in
|
|
the most unsentimental aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in a
|
|
bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold
|
|
water over his passion a la Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled
|
|
the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put
|
|
into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless
|
|
that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became
|
|
a distracted composer.
|
|
|
|
When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
|
|
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
|
|
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden
|
|
hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before
|
|
his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies,
|
|
and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but
|
|
he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he
|
|
might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and
|
|
escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated
|
|
any mortal woman.
|
|
|
|
Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
|
|
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
|
|
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new
|
|
ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled
|
|
state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and
|
|
was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.
|
|
"It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what
|
|
comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it
|
|
wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it
|
|
simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with
|
|
his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go
|
|
at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that
|
|
everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one of
|
|
Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he
|
|
looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the
|
|
busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back
|
|
again. Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as
|
|
the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...
|
|
|
|
"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That
|
|
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
|
|
won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"
|
|
|
|
That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
|
|
to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible
|
|
opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he once forcibly expressed it,
|
|
for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially
|
|
fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow
|
|
had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
|
|
them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith
|
|
and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire
|
|
to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,
|
|
and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.
|
|
|
|
Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it, boys
|
|
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
|
|
expect miracles." I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
|
|
nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
|
|
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
|
|
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the
|
|
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But
|
|
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one,
|
|
and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and
|
|
showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues
|
|
which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it is a feminine
|
|
delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the
|
|
beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would
|
|
embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who
|
|
still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to
|
|
own it.
|
|
|
|
Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb
|
|
all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it
|
|
grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry
|
|
with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are
|
|
curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in
|
|
spite of us. Laurie's heart wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in
|
|
healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to
|
|
forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this
|
|
turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
|
|
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture
|
|
of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a
|
|
tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his
|
|
lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a
|
|
comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into
|
|
a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish
|
|
passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very
|
|
tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass
|
|
away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken
|
|
to the end.
|
|
|
|
As the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries,
|
|
he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before
|
|
him...
|
|
|
|
"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took
|
|
the other, and was happy."
|
|
|
|
Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next
|
|
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "No, I won't! I
|
|
haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why
|
|
then..."
|
|
|
|
Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
|
|
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was
|
|
the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't
|
|
she--and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he
|
|
did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of
|
|
impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one
|
|
point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in
|
|
Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged
|
|
him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of
|
|
his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him
|
|
not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring
|
|
and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That
|
|
would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often,
|
|
and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.
|
|
|
|
"So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for
|
|
her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
|
|
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
|
|
before.
|
|
|
|
But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his
|
|
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
|
|
Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and
|
|
business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and
|
|
in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up
|
|
with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead
|
|
roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
|
|
Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them
|
|
neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring
|
|
thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the
|
|
letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
|
|
Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
|
|
overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the
|
|
rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.
|
|
|
|
The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
|
|
was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
|
|
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to
|
|
and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie
|
|
sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,
|
|
hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go
|
|
to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him,
|
|
for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made
|
|
her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'.
|
|
|
|
Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
|
|
decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you,"
|
|
kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,
|
|
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
|
|
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
|
|
and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
|
|
fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,
|
|
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
|
|
look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to
|
|
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
|
|
unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
|
|
creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as
|
|
she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for
|
|
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was
|
|
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home
|
|
letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when
|
|
they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them,
|
|
for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted
|
|
in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to
|
|
love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and
|
|
glad to have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act
|
|
like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat
|
|
him like a brother.
|
|
|
|
If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
|
|
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never
|
|
lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was
|
|
interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him,
|
|
and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly
|
|
confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her.
|
|
As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about
|
|
in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when
|
|
short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that
|
|
Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did
|
|
grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
|
|
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much
|
|
to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while
|
|
she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or
|
|
absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight
|
|
carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over
|
|
his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a
|
|
ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur
|
|
according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether
|
|
satisfactory.
|
|
|
|
Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding
|
|
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
|
|
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
|
|
Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
|
|
said to himself, with a venerable air...
|
|
|
|
"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been
|
|
through it all, and I can sympathize."
|
|
|
|
With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
|
|
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter
|
|
luxuriously.
|
|
|
|
While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home.
|
|
But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and
|
|
when the next found her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from
|
|
Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of
|
|
Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly
|
|
submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit,
|
|
for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay,
|
|
and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she
|
|
longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake,
|
|
waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.
|
|
|
|
He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,
|
|
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment
|
|
he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow
|
|
pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy
|
|
and sorrow, hope and suspense.
|
|
|
|
He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
|
|
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en
|
|
pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to
|
|
take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be
|
|
in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of
|
|
sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could
|
|
not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech
|
|
departed to find mademoiselle himself.
|
|
|
|
A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
|
|
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
|
|
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide,
|
|
low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or
|
|
console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here
|
|
that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy
|
|
eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did
|
|
not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the
|
|
archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood
|
|
a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
|
|
before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely
|
|
suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black
|
|
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her
|
|
face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to
|
|
Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only
|
|
ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,
|
|
they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for
|
|
dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of
|
|
unmistakable love and longing...
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"
|
|
|
|
I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood
|
|
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
|
|
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
|
|
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
|
|
woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy. He
|
|
did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the
|
|
truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
|
|
|
|
In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,
|
|
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
|
|
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future.
|
|
As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at
|
|
the recollection of her impulsive greeting.
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
|
|
see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
|
|
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak
|
|
quite naturally.
|
|
|
|
"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort
|
|
you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and..." He
|
|
could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden,
|
|
and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down
|
|
on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare,
|
|
so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was
|
|
better than words.
|
|
|
|
"You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth
|
|
is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back, but I dread the going
|
|
home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for
|
|
it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't
|
|
go right back, need you?"
|
|
|
|
"Not if you want me, dear."
|
|
|
|
"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of
|
|
the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little
|
|
while."
|
|
|
|
Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that
|
|
Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she
|
|
wanted--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she
|
|
needed.
|
|
|
|
"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick!
|
|
I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk
|
|
about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said,
|
|
in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied
|
|
on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
|
|
sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon
|
|
his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,
|
|
a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully
|
|
for her alone.
|
|
|
|
The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
|
|
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
|
|
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
|
|
their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked
|
|
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
|
|
gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell
|
|
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
|
|
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.
|
|
|
|
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
|
|
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
|
|
all--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I
|
|
never thought of such a thing!"
|
|
|
|
With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
|
|
no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
|
|
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
|
|
solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
|
|
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
|
|
with more than her usual success.
|
|
|
|
At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was
|
|
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the
|
|
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed
|
|
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
|
|
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
|
|
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
|
|
|
|
The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
|
|
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
|
|
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.
|
|
The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
|
|
moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of
|
|
aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to
|
|
wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look
|
|
benignly down upon them saying, "Little children, love one another."
|
|
|
|
In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
|
|
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
|
|
while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he
|
|
had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for
|
|
the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the
|
|
same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
|
|
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
|
|
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
|
|
it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion
|
|
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one
|
|
of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be
|
|
grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should
|
|
be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a
|
|
scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it
|
|
without words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about
|
|
so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody
|
|
would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been
|
|
crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so
|
|
Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance
|
|
the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and
|
|
sweetest part of his new romance.
|
|
|
|
He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the
|
|
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
|
|
manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
|
|
settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been
|
|
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
|
|
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
|
|
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne
|
|
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
|
|
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
|
|
gulls.
|
|
|
|
They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
|
|
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.
|
|
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each
|
|
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
|
|
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
|
|
between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars
|
|
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for
|
|
the sake of saying something...
|
|
|
|
"You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me
|
|
good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room
|
|
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
|
|
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
|
|
|
|
Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered
|
|
third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar.
|
|
She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used
|
|
both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went
|
|
smoothly through the water.
|
|
|
|
"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to
|
|
silence just then.
|
|
|
|
"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
|
|
Amy?" very tenderly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, Laurie," very low.
|
|
|
|
Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
|
|
tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
|
|
in the lake.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
|
|
|
|
ALL ALONE
|
|
|
|
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
|
|
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when
|
|
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
|
|
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
|
|
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she 'comfort Father and
|
|
Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
|
|
sister, how could she 'make the house cheerful' when all its light and
|
|
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old
|
|
home for the new, and where in all the world could she 'find some
|
|
useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving
|
|
service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless
|
|
way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it
|
|
seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made
|
|
heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some
|
|
people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not
|
|
fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,
|
|
only disappointment, trouble and hard work.
|
|
|
|
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
|
|
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
|
|
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that
|
|
never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a
|
|
life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something
|
|
desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself,
|
|
when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable
|
|
state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the
|
|
inevitable.
|
|
|
|
But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
|
|
angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple
|
|
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
|
|
thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed
|
|
made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, "Oh, Beth,
|
|
come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
|
|
vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
|
|
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
|
|
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
|
|
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
|
|
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
|
|
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
|
|
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
|
|
which chastened grief and strengthned love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
|
|
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
|
|
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
|
|
|
|
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
|
|
help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray
|
|
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,
|
|
"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,
|
|
for I'm all wrong."
|
|
|
|
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
|
|
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and
|
|
did not fear to ask for it.
|
|
|
|
Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
|
|
troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
|
|
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
|
|
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
|
|
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
|
|
in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not
|
|
only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to
|
|
serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
|
|
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called 'the church of
|
|
one member', and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
|
|
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had
|
|
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
|
|
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
|
|
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
|
|
|
|
Other helps had Jo--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
|
|
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned
|
|
to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful
|
|
as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something
|
|
of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and
|
|
the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
|
|
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
|
|
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
|
|
cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
|
|
didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand...
|
|
|
|
"You thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that dear
|
|
lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the
|
|
Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't."
|
|
|
|
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
|
|
Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
|
|
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
|
|
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
|
|
|
|
"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should
|
|
blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always
|
|
_'perwisin'_ I could," said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in
|
|
the topsy-turvy nursery.
|
|
|
|
"It's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your
|
|
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but
|
|
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love
|
|
will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will
|
|
fall off."
|
|
|
|
"Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
|
|
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
|
|
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
|
|
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
|
|
|
|
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
|
|
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
|
|
power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
|
|
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
|
|
Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
|
|
the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
|
|
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
|
|
burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she
|
|
would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately
|
|
she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she
|
|
dropped.
|
|
|
|
Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at
|
|
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
|
|
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
|
|
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a
|
|
struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out
|
|
her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood
|
|
suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do
|
|
it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
|
|
together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo
|
|
had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if
|
|
she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She
|
|
had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,
|
|
and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to
|
|
devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to
|
|
them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to
|
|
increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a
|
|
restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and
|
|
desires, and cheerfully live for others?
|
|
|
|
Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she
|
|
had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she
|
|
do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she
|
|
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
|
|
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
|
|
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
|
|
the hill called Difficulty.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
|
|
mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
|
|
|
|
"We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
|
|
Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."
|
|
|
|
"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul
|
|
her half-finished manuscripts.
|
|
|
|
An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching
|
|
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
|
|
caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success
|
|
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got
|
|
into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,
|
|
for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,
|
|
much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her
|
|
utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested.
|
|
Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the
|
|
appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as
|
|
well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success,
|
|
and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and
|
|
condemned all at once.
|
|
|
|
"I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little story
|
|
like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
|
|
|
|
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos make it
|
|
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no
|
|
thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.
|
|
You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow
|
|
as happy as we are in your success."
|
|
|
|
"If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine. I
|
|
owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
|
|
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
|
|
|
|
So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
|
|
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
|
|
charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly
|
|
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like
|
|
dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
|
|
|
|
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that
|
|
Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon
|
|
set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very
|
|
quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for 'the children' before she
|
|
read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each
|
|
glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and
|
|
satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.
|
|
|
|
"You like it, Mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
|
|
sheets and looked at one another.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
|
|
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
|
|
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
|
|
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."
|
|
|
|
"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
|
|
me."
|
|
|
|
"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
|
|
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head,
|
|
lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was
|
|
settled."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I'm sober and
|
|
sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."
|
|
|
|
"So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied
|
|
it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else."
|
|
|
|
"Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
|
|
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"
|
|
|
|
"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
|
|
came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another
|
|
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very
|
|
lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to
|
|
my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he
|
|
tried now."
|
|
|
|
"No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to
|
|
love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if
|
|
Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him
|
|
any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
|
|
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,
|
|
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
|
|
comes to give you your reward."
|
|
|
|
"Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering
|
|
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
|
|
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
|
|
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine
|
|
is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite
|
|
contented with my family. I don't understand it."
|
|
|
|
"I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
|
|
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
|
|
|
|
"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't
|
|
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
|
|
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
|
|
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and
|
|
tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it
|
|
full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know
|
|
it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage
|
|
now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'. I pray he
|
|
may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain
|
|
with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while
|
|
God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven
|
|
this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!"
|
|
|
|
"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
|
|
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" and Jo laid the rustling
|
|
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
|
|
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
|
|
finds himself alone in the workaday world again.
|
|
|
|
By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
|
|
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
|
|
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
|
|
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,
|
|
she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
|
|
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
|
|
someone to 'love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
|
|
be together'. Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended
|
|
stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners
|
|
name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended
|
|
now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own,
|
|
leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic
|
|
collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She
|
|
drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at
|
|
kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked
|
|
thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in
|
|
the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of
|
|
her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new
|
|
meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.
|
|
|
|
"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
|
|
come."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my
|
|
dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
|
|
how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me,
|
|
and I'm all alone."
|
|
|
|
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
|
|
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,
|
|
as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
|
|
|
|
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking
|
|
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its
|
|
inspirer? Who shall say?
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
|
|
|
|
SURPRISES
|
|
|
|
Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the
|
|
fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of
|
|
dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little
|
|
red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender
|
|
thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked
|
|
tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she
|
|
was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and
|
|
how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and
|
|
nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good
|
|
deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.
|
|
|
|
"An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen
|
|
for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence
|
|
a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I'm old and can't
|
|
enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it.
|
|
Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say,
|
|
old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but..." and
|
|
there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
|
|
|
|
It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
|
|
five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad as it looks, and one can get on
|
|
quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At
|
|
twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly
|
|
resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it,
|
|
but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by
|
|
remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which
|
|
they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the
|
|
spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are
|
|
hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,
|
|
and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself,
|
|
make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour
|
|
sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the
|
|
sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them
|
|
with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember
|
|
that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don't last
|
|
forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and
|
|
that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and
|
|
admiration now.
|
|
|
|
Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter
|
|
how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that
|
|
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,
|
|
and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect
|
|
the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and
|
|
petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out
|
|
of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches
|
|
the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old
|
|
feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little
|
|
attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The
|
|
bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all
|
|
the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part
|
|
mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a
|
|
tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who
|
|
has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for 'the best nevvy
|
|
in the world'.
|
|
|
|
Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this
|
|
little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her,
|
|
a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he
|
|
used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it. But,
|
|
like Jenny in the ballad...
|
|
|
|
"She could not think it he,"
|
|
|
|
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
|
|
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully...
|
|
|
|
"Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!"
|
|
|
|
"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"
|
|
|
|
"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?"
|
|
|
|
"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way,
|
|
and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."
|
|
|
|
"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
|
|
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, the dickens! Now I've done it," and he looked so guilty that Jo
|
|
was down on him like a flash.
|
|
|
|
"You've gone and got married!"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, please, but I never will again," and he went down upon his knees,
|
|
with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
|
|
and triumph.
|
|
|
|
"Actually married?"
|
|
|
|
"Very much so, thank you."
|
|
|
|
"Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into
|
|
her seat with a gasp.
|
|
|
|
"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
|
|
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with
|
|
satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like
|
|
a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you
|
|
ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."
|
|
|
|
"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to
|
|
barricade."
|
|
|
|
Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted
|
|
the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "The old pillow is
|
|
up garret, and we don't need it now. So, come and 'fess, Teddy."
|
|
|
|
"How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that
|
|
but you," and Laurie sat down with an air of great content.
|
|
|
|
"What does Amy call you?"
|
|
|
|
"My lord."
|
|
|
|
"That's like her. Well, you look it," and Jo's eye plainly betrayed
|
|
that she found her boy comelier than ever.
|
|
|
|
The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural
|
|
one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and
|
|
for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a
|
|
little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie
|
|
said, with a vain attempt at dignity...
|
|
|
|
"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but
|
|
you are the same scapegrace as ever."
|
|
|
|
"Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began
|
|
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
|
|
|
|
"How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
|
|
irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all
|
|
over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then
|
|
settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
|
|
|
|
"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all
|
|
coming up presently. I couldn't wait. I wanted to be the one to tell
|
|
you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim' as we used to say when we
|
|
squabbled about the cream."
|
|
|
|
"Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong
|
|
end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I'm pining to
|
|
know."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made
|
|
Jo exclaim...
|
|
|
|
"Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth,
|
|
if you can, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Now she's beginning to marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?" said
|
|
Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite
|
|
agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned
|
|
to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly
|
|
changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But
|
|
Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn't let
|
|
him go alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got
|
|
English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy
|
|
come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be
|
|
married, and then we can do as we like'."
|
|
|
|
"Of course you did. You always have things to suit you."
|
|
|
|
"Not always," and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily...
|
|
|
|
"How did you ever get Aunt to agree?"
|
|
|
|
"It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps
|
|
of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave,
|
|
but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only
|
|
'taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says."
|
|
|
|
"Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"
|
|
interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with
|
|
delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been
|
|
so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
|
|
|
|
"A trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman I can't help
|
|
being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play
|
|
propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use
|
|
apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all
|
|
round, so we did it."
|
|
|
|
"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and
|
|
curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
|
|
|
|
"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet
|
|
wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear
|
|
little Beth."
|
|
|
|
Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the
|
|
little red pillow, which he remembered well.
|
|
|
|
"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone,
|
|
when they had sat quite still a minute.
|
|
|
|
"We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home,
|
|
at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found
|
|
he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend
|
|
our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular
|
|
honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but
|
|
once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!"
|
|
|
|
Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the
|
|
fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured
|
|
her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away
|
|
her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the
|
|
half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly
|
|
gravity she had never seen in him before...
|
|
|
|
"Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever.
|
|
As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to
|
|
me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have
|
|
learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places
|
|
in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have
|
|
come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I
|
|
never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then,
|
|
headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my
|
|
mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after
|
|
making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind,
|
|
at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and
|
|
tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in
|
|
Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got
|
|
into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the
|
|
old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my
|
|
heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you
|
|
believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one
|
|
another?"
|
|
|
|
"I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy
|
|
and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't
|
|
expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for
|
|
playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel
|
|
this. I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss
|
|
my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because
|
|
he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any
|
|
longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another
|
|
all our lives, won't we, Laurie?"
|
|
|
|
He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his
|
|
face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish
|
|
passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them
|
|
both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming
|
|
home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true that you children are
|
|
really married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only
|
|
yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair
|
|
when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!"
|
|
|
|
"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so
|
|
like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed' as Peggotty
|
|
said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a
|
|
precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.
|
|
|
|
"You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in
|
|
feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a
|
|
hard one that I feel forty."
|
|
|
|
"Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You
|
|
are older. Here's a line, and there's another. Unless you smile, your
|
|
eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear
|
|
on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.
|
|
What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a
|
|
remorseful look.
|
|
|
|
But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone
|
|
which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father and Mother to
|
|
help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you
|
|
and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear.
|
|
I am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and..."
|
|
|
|
"You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her,
|
|
as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without
|
|
you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go
|
|
halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and
|
|
all be blissfully happy and friendly together."
|
|
|
|
"If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to
|
|
feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly
|
|
away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy," and Jo leaned
|
|
her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill
|
|
and Laurie told her to hold on to him.
|
|
|
|
He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was
|
|
smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his
|
|
coming.
|
|
|
|
"You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and
|
|
laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?"
|
|
|
|
"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."
|
|
|
|
"Like angels!"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, of course, but which rules?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think
|
|
so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for
|
|
marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."
|
|
|
|
"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your
|
|
life."
|
|
|
|
"Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind
|
|
much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I
|
|
rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and
|
|
prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you
|
|
a favor all the while."
|
|
|
|
"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying
|
|
it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.
|
|
|
|
It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with
|
|
masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and
|
|
mighty" air, "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of
|
|
man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another
|
|
too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel."
|
|
|
|
Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy
|
|
seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her
|
|
pleasure.
|
|
|
|
"I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She
|
|
is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man
|
|
best, you remember."
|
|
|
|
"She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a
|
|
lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than
|
|
any of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it
|
|
sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised
|
|
and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and
|
|
married the good-for-nothing."
|
|
|
|
"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend
|
|
you."
|
|
|
|
"I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and
|
|
striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the
|
|
rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling, "Where is she? Where's my
|
|
dear old Jo?"
|
|
|
|
In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all
|
|
over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were
|
|
set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and
|
|
hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign
|
|
tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the
|
|
old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier
|
|
than ever. It was good to see him beam at 'my children', as he called
|
|
the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly
|
|
duty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all,
|
|
to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying
|
|
the pretty picture they made.
|
|
|
|
The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own
|
|
dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely
|
|
eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that 'her ladyship' was altogether
|
|
a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the
|
|
pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found
|
|
the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than
|
|
clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and
|
|
her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they
|
|
saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but
|
|
the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.
|
|
|
|
For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a
|
|
peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool,
|
|
prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and
|
|
winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of
|
|
her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for
|
|
it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true
|
|
gentlewoman she had hoped to become.
|
|
|
|
"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.
|
|
|
|
"She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr.
|
|
March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head
|
|
beside him.
|
|
|
|
Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her 'pitty aunty', but
|
|
attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of
|
|
delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before
|
|
he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took
|
|
the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank
|
|
movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew
|
|
where to have him.
|
|
|
|
"Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you
|
|
hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman," and
|
|
with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew
|
|
in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted
|
|
his boyish soul.
|
|
|
|
"Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot; ain't it a relishin'
|
|
sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks
|
|
calling little Amy 'Mis. Laurence!'" muttered old Hannah, who could
|
|
not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a
|
|
most decidedly promiscuous manner.
|
|
|
|
Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all
|
|
burst out together--trying to tell the history of three years in half
|
|
an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and
|
|
provide refreshment--for they would have been hoarse and faint if they
|
|
had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into
|
|
the little dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs.
|
|
March as proudly leaned on the arm of 'my son'. The old gentleman took
|
|
Jo, with a whispered, "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the
|
|
empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, "I'll try to fill
|
|
her place, sir."
|
|
|
|
The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for
|
|
everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at
|
|
their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the
|
|
opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad
|
|
libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't
|
|
they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets,
|
|
there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human
|
|
nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness
|
|
of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would
|
|
pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty,
|
|
the little sinners attached themselves to 'Dranpa', who hadn't his
|
|
spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned
|
|
to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm. The others paired off as
|
|
before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind
|
|
it at the minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry.
|
|
|
|
"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver
|
|
dishes that's stored away over yander?"
|
|
|
|
"Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate,
|
|
and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too
|
|
good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?"
|
|
asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.
|
|
|
|
"I don't care," and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an
|
|
uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party
|
|
vanishing above, and as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last
|
|
stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she
|
|
looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon,
|
|
for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift
|
|
was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to
|
|
herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won't do to be
|
|
dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her
|
|
boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had
|
|
just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch
|
|
door.
|
|
|
|
She opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had
|
|
come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming
|
|
on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as
|
|
if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him
|
|
in.
|
|
|
|
"And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the Professor
|
|
paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to
|
|
them.
|
|
|
|
"No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come
|
|
home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us."
|
|
|
|
Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously
|
|
away, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the
|
|
door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had
|
|
something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him,
|
|
and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary
|
|
man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.
|
|
|
|
"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all.
|
|
You haf been ill, my friend?"
|
|
|
|
He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light
|
|
fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.
|
|
|
|
"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you
|
|
last."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that," and he
|
|
shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no
|
|
comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big,
|
|
warm hand.
|
|
|
|
"Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a
|
|
face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might
|
|
as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.
|
|
|
|
If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at
|
|
rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted
|
|
him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for
|
|
his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that
|
|
opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once,
|
|
feeling even the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty
|
|
enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to truly
|
|
hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a
|
|
traveler who knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself
|
|
at home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and
|
|
establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by
|
|
rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch,
|
|
with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to one
|
|
another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit,
|
|
opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while silent John
|
|
listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and Mr. Laurence
|
|
found it impossible to go to sleep.
|
|
|
|
If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have
|
|
amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like
|
|
suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe
|
|
the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long.
|
|
He got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn
|
|
into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere,
|
|
and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at
|
|
him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting
|
|
his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his
|
|
eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered
|
|
the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take
|
|
care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept
|
|
them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.
|
|
|
|
A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water
|
|
after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several
|
|
propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded
|
|
expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment,
|
|
actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him
|
|
with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment.
|
|
Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the
|
|
ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be
|
|
considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when
|
|
Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she
|
|
watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a
|
|
man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was
|
|
dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a
|
|
gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed,
|
|
but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it
|
|
up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect
|
|
better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a
|
|
Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she
|
|
sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even
|
|
the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his
|
|
immaculate wristbands.
|
|
|
|
"Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if
|
|
he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and then a sudden
|
|
thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to
|
|
drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.
|
|
|
|
The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for
|
|
though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor
|
|
dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the
|
|
little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together,
|
|
saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to
|
|
resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.
|
|
|
|
Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted
|
|
the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr.
|
|
Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking
|
|
away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal
|
|
mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of
|
|
bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of
|
|
matches, made a move to go.
|
|
|
|
"We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together
|
|
again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe
|
|
and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.
|
|
|
|
They were not all there. But no one found the words thougtless or
|
|
untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,
|
|
invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the
|
|
household league that love made disoluble. The little chair stood in
|
|
its old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left
|
|
unfinished when the needle grew 'so heavy', was still on its accustomed
|
|
shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved,
|
|
and above it Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days,
|
|
looked down upon them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here."
|
|
|
|
"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said
|
|
Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.
|
|
|
|
But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "Not
|
|
tonight, dear. I can't show off tonight."
|
|
|
|
But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she
|
|
sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best
|
|
master could not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a
|
|
sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The
|
|
room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last
|
|
line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say...
|
|
|
|
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;
|
|
|
|
and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that
|
|
her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.
|
|
|
|
"Now, we must finish with Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that,"
|
|
said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his
|
|
throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo
|
|
stood, saying...
|
|
|
|
"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."
|
|
|
|
A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a
|
|
grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a
|
|
whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune.
|
|
It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily
|
|
and well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might
|
|
listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.
|
|
|
|
Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,
|
|
|
|
used to be the Professor's favorite line, for 'das land' meant Germany
|
|
to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody,
|
|
upon the words...
|
|
|
|
There, oh there, might I with thee,
|
|
O, my beloved, go
|
|
|
|
and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she
|
|
longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither
|
|
whenever he liked.
|
|
|
|
The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered
|
|
with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners
|
|
entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been
|
|
introduced simply as 'my sister', and no one had called her by her new
|
|
name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said,
|
|
in his most gracious manner, at parting...
|
|
|
|
"My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that
|
|
there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."
|
|
|
|
Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly
|
|
illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most
|
|
delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.
|
|
|
|
"I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me
|
|
leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here
|
|
some days."
|
|
|
|
He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother's voice
|
|
gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes, for Mrs. March
|
|
was not so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed.
|
|
|
|
"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid
|
|
satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone.
|
|
|
|
"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as
|
|
she wound up the clock.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her
|
|
bed.
|
|
|
|
She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city,
|
|
and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor,
|
|
somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had
|
|
seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a
|
|
severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to
|
|
be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon
|
|
the subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the
|
|
picture in the dark.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
|
|
|
|
MY LORD AND LADY
|
|
|
|
"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The
|
|
luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery,
|
|
trying to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day
|
|
to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made
|
|
'the baby' again.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this," and
|
|
Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if
|
|
asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
|
|
|
|
"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but I can't get
|
|
on without my little woman any more than a..."
|
|
|
|
"Weathercock can without the wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a
|
|
simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came
|
|
home.
|
|
|
|
"Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with
|
|
only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an
|
|
easterly spell since I was married. Don't know anything about the
|
|
north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"
|
|
|
|
"Lovely weather so far. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm
|
|
not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home,
|
|
dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose that's what you are
|
|
rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said
|
|
Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
|
|
|
|
"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked
|
|
Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
|
|
|
|
"We have our plans. We don't mean to say much about them yet, because
|
|
we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going
|
|
into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove
|
|
to him that I'm not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me
|
|
steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."
|
|
|
|
"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at
|
|
Laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke.
|
|
|
|
"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall
|
|
astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant
|
|
society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall
|
|
exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame
|
|
Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.
|
|
|
|
"Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by
|
|
calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that
|
|
there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon
|
|
as a queen of society.
|
|
|
|
"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding
|
|
it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple
|
|
had gone.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful
|
|
expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.
|
|
|
|
"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as
|
|
Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.
|
|
|
|
Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the
|
|
bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs. Laurence."
|
|
|
|
"My Lord!"
|
|
|
|
"That man intends to marry our Jo!"
|
|
|
|
"I hope so, don't you, dear?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that
|
|
expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal
|
|
richer."
|
|
|
|
"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love
|
|
one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.
|
|
Women never should marry for money..." Amy caught herself up short as
|
|
the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with
|
|
malicious gravity...
|
|
|
|
"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend
|
|
to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your
|
|
duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a
|
|
good-for-nothing like me."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich
|
|
when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I
|
|
sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you."
|
|
And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private,
|
|
gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.
|
|
|
|
"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be
|
|
once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd
|
|
gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your
|
|
living by rowing on the lake."
|
|
|
|
"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a
|
|
richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I
|
|
have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to
|
|
think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and
|
|
though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the
|
|
daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday,
|
|
and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a
|
|
million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral
|
|
remarks, Mrs. Laurence," and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an
|
|
absent look, though fixed upon his face.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I
|
|
don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my
|
|
handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is
|
|
such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature
|
|
with artistic satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that
|
|
suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his
|
|
wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you a
|
|
question, dear?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course, you may."
|
|
|
|
"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the
|
|
dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but
|
|
the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding
|
|
with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"
|
|
|
|
Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear
|
|
vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and
|
|
confidence.
|
|
|
|
"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't
|
|
we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in
|
|
Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they
|
|
began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they
|
|
were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
|
|
|
|
"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him,
|
|
just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a
|
|
beautiful thing."
|
|
|
|
"Bless her dear heart! She won't think so when she has a literary
|
|
husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We
|
|
won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in
|
|
spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she
|
|
believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her
|
|
in that way."
|
|
|
|
"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was
|
|
always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks
|
|
to you, the dream has come true."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of
|
|
poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get
|
|
taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't
|
|
ask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand
|
|
ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that
|
|
it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman
|
|
better than a blarnerying beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do,
|
|
though it is harder."
|
|
|
|
"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the
|
|
domestic admiration society.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I
|
|
was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good
|
|
many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and
|
|
enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid
|
|
fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so
|
|
full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself,
|
|
and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's
|
|
a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be
|
|
allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of
|
|
fuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to
|
|
comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it
|
|
out."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer
|
|
in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you
|
|
made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old
|
|
story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see
|
|
youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a
|
|
little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and
|
|
whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put
|
|
out my hand and help them, as I was helped."
|
|
|
|
"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving,
|
|
with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution
|
|
for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich
|
|
people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their
|
|
money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to
|
|
leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while
|
|
alive, and enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll
|
|
have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure
|
|
by giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas,
|
|
going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with
|
|
good deeds?"
|
|
|
|
"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you
|
|
ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar."
|
|
|
|
"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"
|
|
|
|
So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,
|
|
feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped
|
|
to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more
|
|
uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough
|
|
ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely
|
|
knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest
|
|
than they.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
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DAISY AND DEMI
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I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March
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family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious
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and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years
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of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert
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their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their
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elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being
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utterly spoiled by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of
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course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be
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shown when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently
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at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and
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behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy
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demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with four stitches in it.
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She likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a
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microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to
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Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who
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invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with
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his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy
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early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and
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distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw,
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and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a
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mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for
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wheels to go 'wound and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a
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chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who,
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with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till
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rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, Marmar,
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dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."
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Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well
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together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
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tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other
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aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her
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brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby,
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sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart,
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and nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to
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be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and
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produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small
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virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few
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small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all
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fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the
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window in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether
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it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a
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friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the
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most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful
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worshipers.
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"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in
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one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
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the whole world.
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As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote would be
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blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which
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had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be
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spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
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entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her
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'Beth', and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as
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if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own
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could see.
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Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know
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everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get
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satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"
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He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his
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grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which
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the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised
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satisfaction of the womenfolk.
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"What makes my legs go, Dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying
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those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting
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after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
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"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
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head respectfully.
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"What is a little mine?"
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"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the
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wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."
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"Open me. I want to see it go wound."
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"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you
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up, and you go till He stops you."
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"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the
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new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"
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"Yes, but I can't show you how, for it is done when we don't see."
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Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch,
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and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."
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A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively
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that his anxious grandmother said, "My dear, do you think it wise to
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talk about such things to that baby? He's getting great bumps over his
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eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions."
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"If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive
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true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping
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him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,
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and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.
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Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind."
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If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I
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cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when,
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after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he
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answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old
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gentleman could only join in Grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in
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metaphysics.
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There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given
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convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
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philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to
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prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he
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would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with
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which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their
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parent's souls.
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Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was
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ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the
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tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show
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themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
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"No more raisins, Demi. They'll make you sick," says Mamma to the
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young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing
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regularity on plum-pudding day.
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"Me likes to be sick."
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"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty cakes."
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He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and
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by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma
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by a shrewd bargain.
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"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like,"
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says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding
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is safely bouncing in the pot.
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"Truly, Marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered
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head.
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"Yes, truly. Anything you say," replies the shortsighted parent,
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preparing herself to sing, "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen
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times over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of
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wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply...
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"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."
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Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the
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trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a
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name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but
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Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for
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which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo
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neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their
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little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost
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her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with infantile
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penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with 'the bear-man'
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better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for
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he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate
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drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of
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its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
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Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes,
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but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the
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'the bear-man' with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small
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affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her
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throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth.
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Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the
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young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this
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counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not
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deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
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likewise effective--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law.
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He was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked
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particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his
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manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to
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day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always
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asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent
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papa labored under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long
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discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more
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observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
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Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,
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astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay
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Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,
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likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own
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short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed
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that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his
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sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face...
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"Father, Father, here's the Professor!"
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Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
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said, with undisturbed dignity, "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for
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a moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the
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letter and tell its name."
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"I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took
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the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil
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triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, Dranpa, it's a We!"
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"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up,
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and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of
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expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
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"What have you been at today, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the
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gymnast.
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"Me went to see little Mary."
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"And what did you there?"
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"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.
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"Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?"
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asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon
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the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.
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"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little
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boys like little girls?" asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
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bland satisfaction.
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"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying
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the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.
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"'Tisn't in mine head, it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,
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putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she
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alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
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"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet,
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mannling," and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
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wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also
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saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. ..
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"Do great boys like great girls, to, 'Fessor?"
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Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer 'couldn't tell a lie', so he gave the
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somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone
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that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo's retiring
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face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the 'precocious
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chick' had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.
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Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour
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afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a
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tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
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followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big
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slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi
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puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
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UNDER THE UMBRELLA
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While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,
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as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.
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Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy
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roads and sodden fields.
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"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should
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give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way
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out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though
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there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she was sure to
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meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and
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never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his
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short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till
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that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something
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for the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely
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strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they
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were tired of his frequent calls.
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Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and
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invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her
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weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee
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for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."
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By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet
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everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in
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Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her
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hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise.
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And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer,
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while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter
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lessons in love.
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Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried
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to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated
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life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,
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after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was
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her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with
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praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow'
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in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved
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appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's
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hat on the Marches' table nearly every evening. But he exulted in
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private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece
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of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat
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of arms.
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For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like
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regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no
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sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to
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become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross.
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"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's
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nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid
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us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a despairing
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look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one
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dull afternoon.
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"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain,"
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said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not
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alluding to the fact.
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"Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get
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some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
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glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
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"Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
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two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,
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and something warm under your cloak?"
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"I believe so," answered Jo absently.
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"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long
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to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.
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Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk
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rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
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heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any
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mothers to help them through their troubles?"
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The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks,
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and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo
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found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
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loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering
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instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most
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unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
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descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as
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if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her
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cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For
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the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she
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felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her
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bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had
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forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing,
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and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She
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looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked
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with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering
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look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with 'Hoffmann, Swartz, &
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Co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful
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air...
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"It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things
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and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm
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ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or
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find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do
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your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your
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bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"
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With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly
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escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself
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into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon,
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ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted
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herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting
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temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the
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ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a
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somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected
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bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer
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looking down.
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"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many
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horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my
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friend?"
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"I'm shopping."
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Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to
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the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said
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politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the
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bundles?"
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"Yes, thank you."
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Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought
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of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking
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away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly
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burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,
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and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that
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day.
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"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking
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at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared
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he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
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"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf
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been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt
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as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily...
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"No, I didn't. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
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rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."
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"And you?"
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"I'm always glad to see you, sir."
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In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool,
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and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the
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Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...
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"I thank you, and come one more time before I go."
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"You are going, then?"
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"I haf no longer any business here, it is done."
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"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
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was in that short reply of his.
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"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make
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my bread and gif my Junglings much help."
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"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo
|
|
eagerly.
|
|
|
|
"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in
|
|
a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way
|
|
smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I
|
|
not?"
|
|
|
|
"Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you
|
|
like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging
|
|
to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help
|
|
betraying.
|
|
|
|
"Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West."
|
|
|
|
"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't
|
|
matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read
|
|
women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,
|
|
therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and
|
|
manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was
|
|
in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When
|
|
she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help
|
|
suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered
|
|
her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but
|
|
when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply
|
|
that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost
|
|
clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his
|
|
destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted
|
|
him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down
|
|
again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter...
|
|
|
|
"Here's the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won't take
|
|
long."
|
|
|
|
Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and
|
|
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and
|
|
dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the
|
|
flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of
|
|
needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off,
|
|
gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for
|
|
lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching
|
|
her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed
|
|
to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women,
|
|
like dreams, go by contraries.
|
|
|
|
When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more
|
|
cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather
|
|
enjoyed it on the whole.
|
|
|
|
"Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and
|
|
haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so
|
|
pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and
|
|
flowers.
|
|
|
|
"What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech,
|
|
and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they
|
|
went in.
|
|
|
|
"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.
|
|
|
|
"They eat them when they can get them."
|
|
|
|
"Do you care for nuts?"
|
|
|
|
"Like a squirrel."
|
|
|
|
"Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?"
|
|
|
|
Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy
|
|
a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done
|
|
with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own,
|
|
and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of
|
|
rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of
|
|
a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and
|
|
giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they
|
|
traveled on again.
|
|
|
|
"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,
|
|
after a moist promenade of half a block.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he
|
|
would hear it.
|
|
|
|
"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
|
|
remains to me."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden
|
|
squeeze she gave it.
|
|
|
|
"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
|
|
alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had
|
|
stepped into a refrigerator.
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and
|
|
the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
|
|
friendly thing to take the little mother."
|
|
|
|
"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer." "I'm going very fast, and he's
|
|
getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental
|
|
shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to
|
|
behold.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and
|
|
then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,
|
|
condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
|
|
shopping for their family.
|
|
|
|
"Your lady may prefer this. It's a superior article, a most desirable
|
|
color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable
|
|
gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.
|
|
|
|
"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,
|
|
and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.
|
|
|
|
"Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to
|
|
himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters
|
|
like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
|
|
|
|
"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than
|
|
she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it
|
|
came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the
|
|
first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and
|
|
that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the
|
|
latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend,
|
|
it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this
|
|
idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty
|
|
gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.
|
|
|
|
"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
|
|
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.
|
|
|
|
"I beg your pardon. I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I
|
|
can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,
|
|
because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.
|
|
|
|
Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away.
|
|
The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he
|
|
asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you
|
|
cry?"
|
|
|
|
Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said
|
|
she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine
|
|
fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified
|
|
creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going
|
|
away."
|
|
|
|
"Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp
|
|
his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing
|
|
but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and
|
|
I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I?
|
|
Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all
|
|
in one breath.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both
|
|
hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that
|
|
plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him,
|
|
even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he
|
|
carried it.
|
|
|
|
It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had
|
|
desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on
|
|
account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except
|
|
figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender
|
|
remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only
|
|
way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an
|
|
expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there
|
|
actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his
|
|
beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have
|
|
done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a
|
|
deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her
|
|
bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most
|
|
beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than ever,
|
|
though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling
|
|
thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and
|
|
every finger of his gloves needed mending.
|
|
|
|
Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they
|
|
entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious
|
|
of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for
|
|
they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any
|
|
life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the
|
|
plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of
|
|
heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the
|
|
world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo
|
|
trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and
|
|
wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she
|
|
was the first to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks
|
|
which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or
|
|
reportable character.
|
|
|
|
"Friedrich, why didn't you..."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!"
|
|
cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful
|
|
delight.
|
|
|
|
"I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like
|
|
it."
|
|
|
|
"Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou', also,
|
|
and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a
|
|
lovely monosyllable.
|
|
|
|
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and
|
|
keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say
|
|
'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer,
|
|
more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
|
|
|
|
"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
|
|
bashfully.
|
|
|
|
"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,
|
|
because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the
|
|
dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something the day I said
|
|
goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to
|
|
thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had
|
|
spoken?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."
|
|
|
|
"Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince
|
|
came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist
|
|
die beste', but that I should not expect."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had
|
|
another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,"
|
|
said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
|
|
|
|
"Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all.
|
|
I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find,
|
|
Professorin."
|
|
|
|
"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me
|
|
what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?"
|
|
|
|
"This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat
|
|
pocket.
|
|
|
|
Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
|
|
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her
|
|
sending it an occasional attempt.
|
|
|
|
"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.
|
|
|
|
"I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in
|
|
it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find
|
|
him. I will see that you go not in the wet."
|
|
|
|
|
|
IN THE GARRET
|
|
|
|
Four little chests all in a row,
|
|
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
|
|
All fashioned and filled, long ago,
|
|
By children now in their prime.
|
|
Four little keys hung side by side,
|
|
With faded ribbons, brave and gay
|
|
When fastened there, with childish pride,
|
|
Long ago, on a rainy day.
|
|
Four little names, one on each lid,
|
|
Carved out by a boyish hand,
|
|
And underneath there lieth hid
|
|
Histories of the happy band
|
|
Once playing here, and pausing oft
|
|
To hear the sweet refrain,
|
|
That came and went on the roof aloft,
|
|
In the falling summer rain.
|
|
|
|
"Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
|
|
I look in with loving eyes,
|
|
For folded here, with well-known care,
|
|
A goodly gathering lies,
|
|
The record of a peaceful life--
|
|
Gifts to gentle child and girl,
|
|
A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
|
|
A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
|
|
No toys in this first chest remain,
|
|
For all are carried away,
|
|
In their old age, to join again
|
|
In another small Meg's play.
|
|
Ah, happy mother! Well I know
|
|
You hear, like a sweet refrain,
|
|
Lullabies ever soft and low
|
|
In the falling summer rain.
|
|
|
|
"Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
|
|
And within a motley store
|
|
Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
|
|
Birds and beasts that speak no more,
|
|
Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
|
|
Only trod by youthful feet,
|
|
Dreams of a future never found,
|
|
Memories of a past still sweet,
|
|
Half-writ poems, stories wild,
|
|
April letters, warm and cold,
|
|
Diaries of a wilful child,
|
|
Hints of a woman early old,
|
|
A woman in a lonely home,
|
|
Hearing, like a sad refrain--
|
|
"Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
|
|
In the falling summer rain.
|
|
|
|
My Beth! the dust is always swept
|
|
From the lid that bears your name,
|
|
As if by loving eyes that wept,
|
|
By careful hands that often came.
|
|
Death canonized for us one saint,
|
|
Ever less human than divine,
|
|
And still we lay, with tender plaint,
|
|
Relics in this household shrine--
|
|
The silver bell, so seldom rung,
|
|
The little cap which last she wore,
|
|
The fair, dead Catherine that hung
|
|
By angels borne above her door.
|
|
The songs she sang, without lament,
|
|
In her prison-house of pain,
|
|
Forever are they sweetly blent
|
|
With the falling summer rain.
|
|
|
|
Upon the last lid's polished field--
|
|
Legend now both fair and true
|
|
A gallant knight bears on his shield,
|
|
"Amy" in letters gold and blue.
|
|
Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
|
|
Slippers that have danced their last,
|
|
Faded flowers laid by with care,
|
|
Fans whose airy toils are past,
|
|
Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
|
|
Trifles that have borne their part
|
|
In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
|
|
The record of a maiden heart
|
|
Now learning fairer, truer spells,
|
|
Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
|
|
The silver sound of bridal bells
|
|
In the falling summer rain.
|
|
|
|
Four little chests all in a row,
|
|
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
|
|
Four women, taught by weal and woe
|
|
To love and labor in their prime.
|
|
Four sisters, parted for an hour,
|
|
None lost, one only gone before,
|
|
Made by love's immortal power,
|
|
Nearest and dearest evermore.
|
|
Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
|
|
Lie open to the Father's sight,
|
|
May they be rich in golden hours,
|
|
Deeds that show fairer for the light,
|
|
Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
|
|
Like a spirit-stirring strain,
|
|
Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
|
|
In the long sunshine after rain.
|
|
|
|
"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I
|
|
was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it
|
|
would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the
|
|
Professor had treasured so long.
|
|
|
|
"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I
|
|
read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said
|
|
Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the
|
|
wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself,
|
|
She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love.
|
|
I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If this is
|
|
not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it
|
|
in Gott's name?'"
|
|
|
|
"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious
|
|
thing I needed," whispered Jo.
|
|
|
|
"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your
|
|
welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf
|
|
her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant
|
|
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he
|
|
was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
|
|
|
|
Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
|
|
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.
|
|
|
|
"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so
|
|
pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that
|
|
she could not keep silent.
|
|
|
|
"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that
|
|
so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after
|
|
much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so
|
|
much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo
|
|
decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it
|
|
long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and
|
|
don't call yourself old--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help
|
|
loving you if you were seventy!"
|
|
|
|
The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of
|
|
his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn't, Jo wiped
|
|
his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or
|
|
two...
|
|
|
|
"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now,
|
|
for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
|
|
burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.
|
|
Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as
|
|
he tried to reclaim his load.
|
|
|
|
"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go
|
|
away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even
|
|
for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be
|
|
happy while we hope and wait?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the
|
|
rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy
|
|
myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or
|
|
impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and
|
|
both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
|
|
wills."
|
|
|
|
"Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif
|
|
back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor,
|
|
quite overcome.
|
|
|
|
Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they
|
|
stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
|
|
tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich
|
|
under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the
|
|
flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings,
|
|
for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything
|
|
but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that
|
|
was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the
|
|
night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and
|
|
peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her
|
|
lover in, and shut the door.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
|
|
|
|
HARVEST TIME
|
|
|
|
For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
|
|
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
|
|
price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began
|
|
rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March
|
|
died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over--for they loved
|
|
the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause
|
|
for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts
|
|
of joyful things possible.
|
|
|
|
"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course
|
|
you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the
|
|
matter over some weeks later.
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
|
|
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
|
|
|
|
"You don't mean to live there?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I do."
|
|
|
|
"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of
|
|
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
|
|
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."
|
|
|
|
"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."
|
|
|
|
"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
|
|
paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
|
|
|
|
"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and Jo laughed.
|
|
|
|
"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
|
|
|
|
"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads--a good, happy,
|
|
homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them."
|
|
|
|
"That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried
|
|
Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
|
|
|
|
"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.
|
|
|
|
"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
|
|
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.
|
|
|
|
"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her
|
|
one all-absorbing son.
|
|
|
|
"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
|
|
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers
|
|
a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.
|
|
|
|
"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes,
|
|
though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she
|
|
speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand
|
|
that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before
|
|
my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no
|
|
one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor,
|
|
forlorn little lads who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and
|
|
make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going
|
|
to ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything
|
|
for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their
|
|
troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!"
|
|
|
|
Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in
|
|
her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not
|
|
seen for a long while.
|
|
|
|
"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
|
|
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart,
|
|
he's been doing it all his life--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting
|
|
rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay in his pocket long
|
|
enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved
|
|
me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so, and we
|
|
can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school.
|
|
It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture
|
|
strong and plain. There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and
|
|
splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard.
|
|
Such work is healthy, isn't it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach
|
|
in his own way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet
|
|
and scold them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for
|
|
lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and
|
|
revel in the little dears to my heart's content. Think what luxury--
|
|
Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me."
|
|
|
|
As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off
|
|
into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought
|
|
he'd have an apoplectic fit.
|
|
|
|
"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be
|
|
heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor
|
|
to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate."
|
|
|
|
"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in
|
|
the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to
|
|
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins,
|
|
I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs.
|
|
Bhaer."
|
|
|
|
"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich
|
|
pupils, also--perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I've got
|
|
a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich
|
|
people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've
|
|
seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones
|
|
pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through
|
|
mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best
|
|
have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they
|
|
need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them
|
|
about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at
|
|
once from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain
|
|
much--plucky little souls--but they feel it. I've been through
|
|
something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest in
|
|
such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest,
|
|
well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the
|
|
topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up
|
|
one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"
|
|
|
|
"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful
|
|
look.
|
|
|
|
"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady,
|
|
sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
|
|
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not
|
|
merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them
|
|
yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times.
|
|
I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone
|
|
feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my
|
|
flock, I'll just point to you, and say 'There's your model, my lads'."
|
|
|
|
Poor Laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he was,
|
|
something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise
|
|
made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
|
|
|
|
"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish
|
|
way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,
|
|
except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me
|
|
off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if
|
|
I've got on at all, you may thank these two for it," and he laid one
|
|
hand gently on his grandfather's head, and the other on Amy's golden
|
|
one, for the three were never far apart.
|
|
|
|
"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
|
|
world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind
|
|
just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as
|
|
the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only
|
|
here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more
|
|
quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful
|
|
evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of
|
|
happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed
|
|
always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.
|
|
|
|
It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen
|
|
in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew
|
|
where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then
|
|
a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished
|
|
surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was
|
|
continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the
|
|
Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for
|
|
its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo,
|
|
and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.
|
|
|
|
Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but
|
|
the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most
|
|
rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her
|
|
'wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented
|
|
had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered
|
|
Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of
|
|
poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the
|
|
terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely
|
|
on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved,
|
|
and played cricket in the big field where the irritable 'cow with a
|
|
crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It
|
|
became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be
|
|
called the 'Bhaer-garten', as a compliment to its master and
|
|
appropriate to its inhabitants.
|
|
|
|
It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a
|
|
fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be--'a happy, homelike
|
|
place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness'. Every room
|
|
in the big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon
|
|
had its owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet
|
|
animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz
|
|
from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy
|
|
young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding
|
|
words, and grateful hearts, full of love for 'Mother Bhaer'. She had
|
|
boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels,
|
|
by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin
|
|
much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists
|
|
in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little
|
|
ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal
|
|
boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as
|
|
benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times
|
|
seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their
|
|
penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching
|
|
little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even
|
|
their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.
|
|
There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys,
|
|
boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a
|
|
merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was
|
|
welcome to the 'Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his
|
|
admission would ruin the school.
|
|
|
|
Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
|
|
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the
|
|
applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for
|
|
now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers
|
|
and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to
|
|
increase her happiness--Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a
|
|
happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny
|
|
temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up
|
|
alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and
|
|
aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough
|
|
nurses loved and served them well.
|
|
|
|
There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
|
|
delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches,
|
|
Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day
|
|
of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals
|
|
occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an
|
|
exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance
|
|
healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire.
|
|
Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped
|
|
briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
|
|
feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds
|
|
twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree
|
|
stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the
|
|
first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed
|
|
up and tumbled down. Everybody declared that there never had been such
|
|
a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave
|
|
themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there
|
|
were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.
|
|
|
|
Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
|
|
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying...
|
|
|
|
The gentle apple's winey juice.
|
|
|
|
The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout
|
|
Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made
|
|
a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the
|
|
way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little
|
|
ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among
|
|
the bird's nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck.
|
|
Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas,
|
|
sorting the contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a
|
|
beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the various groups,
|
|
and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little
|
|
crutch beside him.
|
|
|
|
Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned
|
|
up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her
|
|
arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy
|
|
bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never
|
|
felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad,
|
|
galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by
|
|
his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies
|
|
could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and
|
|
their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in
|
|
time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back
|
|
with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.
|
|
|
|
At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while
|
|
the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and
|
|
Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the
|
|
grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day.
|
|
The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for
|
|
the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of
|
|
refreshment as they liked--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the
|
|
boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the
|
|
fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk
|
|
while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by
|
|
eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over
|
|
the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of
|
|
bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among
|
|
the edibles at his own sweet will.
|
|
|
|
When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first
|
|
regular toast, which was always drunk at such times--"Aunt March, God
|
|
bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot
|
|
how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been
|
|
taught to keep her memory green.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times
|
|
three!"
|
|
|
|
That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering
|
|
once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed,
|
|
from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the
|
|
astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search
|
|
of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented
|
|
the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were
|
|
transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents,
|
|
some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were
|
|
ornaments to Grandma's--for the children's gifts were all their own.
|
|
Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the
|
|
handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March.
|
|
Demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut,
|
|
Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was
|
|
soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so
|
|
fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words--"To dear
|
|
Grandma, from her little Beth."
|
|
|
|
During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when
|
|
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while
|
|
Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to
|
|
sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and
|
|
from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys
|
|
sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie
|
|
set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best
|
|
effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand
|
|
success, for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on
|
|
shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz
|
|
and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.
|
|
|
|
After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and
|
|
her daughters under the festival tree.
|
|
|
|
"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'unlucky Jo' again, when my
|
|
greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,
|
|
taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was
|
|
rapturously churning.
|
|
|
|
"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
|
|
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as
|
|
she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
|
|
|
|
"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and
|
|
frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
|
|
mankind. "Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish,
|
|
lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may
|
|
write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the
|
|
better for such experiences and illustrations as these," and Jo pointed
|
|
from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the
|
|
Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one
|
|
of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her
|
|
mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in
|
|
her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face
|
|
which never could grow old to them.
|
|
|
|
"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
|
|
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I
|
|
had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've
|
|
got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world," and
|
|
Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender
|
|
and devout content.
|
|
|
|
"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter
|
|
it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or
|
|
confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I've
|
|
begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing
|
|
I've ever done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so
|
|
that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little
|
|
angel."
|
|
|
|
As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping
|
|
child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
|
|
creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's
|
|
sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for
|
|
one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was
|
|
growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more
|
|
serious, strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth,
|
|
good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and
|
|
sorrow, from the most blessed for ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
Into each life some rain must fall,
|
|
Some days must be dark and sad and dreary.
|
|
|
|
|
|
"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but
|
|
hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped
|
|
from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale
|
|
one.
|
|
|
|
"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie
|
|
to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never
|
|
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so
|
|
devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can't
|
|
love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg,
|
|
'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'"
|
|
|
|
"There's no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I'm far
|
|
happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to
|
|
her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is
|
|
getting gray and stout. I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am
|
|
thirty. We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night,
|
|
for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under
|
|
the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already.
|
|
But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of,
|
|
and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among
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boys, I can't help using their expressions now and then."
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"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March,
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frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
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countenance.
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"Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
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you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,
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with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.
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"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy
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softly.
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"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
|
|
dear," added Meg's tender voice.
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|
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Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if
|
|
to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and
|
|
voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility...
|
|
|
|
"Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a
|
|
greater happiness than this!"
|
|
|
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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
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