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 divine 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 with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with

homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John

was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra

quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be

attended to at once. As John firmly believed that ‘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.”