wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it; and, after a
touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands
her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and
gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to
bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a
letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The
latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young
pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The
bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the
stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely
softens the "stern sire": he consents without a murmur, all join in a
joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive
Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
[Illustration: The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing]
Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the
cot-bed, on which the "dress-circle" was built, suddenly shut up, and
extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to
the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless
with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared,
with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to
supper."
This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table,
they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to
get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was
unheard-of since the departed days of plenty. There was
ice-cream,--actually two dishes of it, pink and white,--and cake and
fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table,
four great bouquets of hot-house flowers!
It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and
then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
"Is it fairies?" asked Amy,
"It's Santa Claus," said Beth.
"Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard
and white eyebrows.
"Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a
sudden inspiration.
"All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.
"The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into
his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg.
"Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an
odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago;
and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would
allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending
them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse; and so you
have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk
breakfast."
"That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow,
and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us;
but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when
we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt
out of sight, with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of satisfaction.
"You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence; but says he's
very proud, and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his
grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and
makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't
come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls."
"Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the
fence, and were getting on capitally,--all about cricket, and so
on,--when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some
day; for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly.
[Illustration: We talked over the fence]
"I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I've no
objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought
the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure
what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away,
hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own."
"It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots.
"But we'll have another play, some time, that he _can_ see. Perhaps
he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?"
"I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg
examined her flowers with great interest.
"They _are_ lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs.
March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my
bunch to father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we
are."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"]
III.
THE LAURENCE BOY.
"Jo! Jo! where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs.
"Here!" answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found
her sister eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe,"
wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny
window. This was Jo's favorite refuge; and here she loved to retire with
half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society
of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg
appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her
cheeks, and waited to hear the news.
"Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for
to-morrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then
proceeding to read it, with girlish delight.
"'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a
little dance on New-Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go; now
what _shall_ we wear?"
"What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins,
because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo, with her mouth full.
"If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm
eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait."
"I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can't take any out."
"You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the
front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee
will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and
my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like."
"Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall
have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about
dress.
"You _must_ have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves
are more important than anything else; you can't dance without them, and
if you don't I should be _so_ mortified."
"Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing; it's no
fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers."
"You can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are
so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn't
get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked Meg
anxiously.
"I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained
they are; that's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage--each
wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't you see?"
"Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove
dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
"Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking
up her book.
"You may have it, you may! only don't stain it, and do behave nicely.
Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher
Columbus!' will you?"
"Don't worry about me; I'll be as prim as I can, and not get into any
scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me
finish this splendid story."
So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and sing
blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her
story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.
On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls
played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the
all-important business of "getting ready for the party." Simple as the
toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing
and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the
house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch
the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
[Illustration: Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks]
"Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on the bed.
"It's the dampness drying," replied Jo.
"What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy, smoothing
her own pretty curls with a superior air.
"There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little
ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs.
She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the
hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid a row of
little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
"Oh, oh, oh! what _have_ you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair, oh,
my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her
forehead.
"Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil
everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a
mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of
regret.
"It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come
on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've
seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly.
"Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone,"
cried Meg petulantly.
"So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,"
said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the
united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on.
They looked very well in their simple suits,--Meg in silvery drab, with
a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with
a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for
her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one
soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine." Meg's
high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not
own it, and Jo's nineteen hair-pins all seemed stuck straight into her
head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant
or die!
"Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went
daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven,
when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice
cried from a window,--
"Girls, girls! _have_ you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?"
"Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding,
with a laugh, as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we
were all running away from an earthquake."
"It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady
is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg,
who had a good many little "aristocratic tastes" of her own.
"Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash
right? and does my hair look _very_ bad?" said Meg, as she turned from
the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged prink.
"I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind
me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her
head a hasty brush.
"No, winking isn't lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is
wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight,
and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to any
one: it isn't the thing."
"How _do_ you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music
gay?"
[Illustration: Mrs. Gardiner greeted them]
Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties,
and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them.
Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them
over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her
ease very soon; but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish
gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt
as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial
lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she
longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life.
She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly
that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the
group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not
roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she
stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked
at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would
have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big
red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage
her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy
herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the
same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face
to face with the "Laurence boy."
[Illustration: Face to face with the Laurence boy]
"Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to
back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little
startled,--
"Don't mind me; stay, if you like."
"Sha'n't I disturb you?"
"Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and felt
rather strange at first, you know."
"So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."
The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to
be polite and easy,--
"I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us,
don't you?"
"Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner
was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket
when he brought the cat home.
That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her
heartiest way,--
"We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present."
"Grandpa sent it."
"But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"
"How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober,
while his black eyes shone with fun.
"Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo,"
returned the young lady.
"I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie."
"Laurie Laurence,--what an odd name!"
"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called
me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead."
"I hate my name, too--so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo,
instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?"
"I thrashed 'em."
"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it"; and
Jo resigned herself with a sigh.
"Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he
thought the name suited her.
"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is
lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on
people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and
let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?"
"Sometimes; you see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been
into company enough yet to know how you do things here."
"Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people
describe their travels."
Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin; but Jo's eager questions soon
set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where
the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for
holiday fun went walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.
"Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?"
"We spent last winter there."
"Can you talk French?"
"We were not allowed to speak any thing else at Vevay."
"Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce."
"Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said Laurie
good-naturedly.
"How nicely you do it! Let me see,--you said, 'Who is the young lady in
the pretty slippers,' didn't you?"
"Oui, mademoiselle."
"It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is
pretty?"
"Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and
quiet, and dances like a lady."
Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and
stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised and chatted,
till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore
off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and
Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody
lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the "Laurence boy" better than
ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him
to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys
were almost unknown creatures to them.
"Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine
teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a boy,
and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?"
It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself in
time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way.
"I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your
books,--no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed at the dreadful
"pegging" which had escaped her.
Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug,--
"Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway."
"Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she
had imagined seventeen already.
"Sixteen, next month."
"How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it."
"I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way
fellows do either, in this country."
"What do you like?"
"To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."
Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows
looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by
saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you
go and try it?"
"If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.
"I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because--" There Jo stopped, and
looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
"Because what?" asked Laurie curiously.
"You won't tell?"
"Never!"
"Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my
frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it's nicely mended, it
shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may
laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know."
But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the
expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,--
"Never mind that; I'll tell you how we can manage: there's a long hall
out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please
come?"
Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when
she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was
empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and taught
her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring.
When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath;
and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at
Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and
Jo reluctantly followed her into a side-room, where she found her on a
sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
[Illustration: They sat down on the stairs]
"I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad
wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever
going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.
"I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I
don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all
night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
"I can't have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I dare say I
can't get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it's a long
way to the stable, and no one to send."
"I'll go."
"No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for
the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest
till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can."
"I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea
occurred to her.
"Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell any one. Get me my rubbers, and put these
slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; but as soon as supper
is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes."
"They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd rather."
"No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired, I can't
stir!"
So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away
to the dining-room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and
opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little
private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee,
which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as
bad as the back.
"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove
by scrubbing her gown with it.
"Can I help you?" said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a
full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
"I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and some one
shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing
dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
"Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take it to
your sister?"
"Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it
myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did."
Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a
little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and
was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a "nice boy."
They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the
midst of a quiet game of "Buzz," with two or three other young people
who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose
so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation
of pain.
"Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing.
I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped up-stairs to put her
things on.
Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she
decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down,
and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It
happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighborhood;
and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she
said, came up, and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just
come for him, he said.
"It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved,
but hesitating to accept the offer.
"I always go early,--I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's all
on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."
That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully
accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah
hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they
rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and
elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up, and the
girls talked over their party in freedom.
"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and
making herself comfortable.
"Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to
me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when Sallie does.
She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and it will be
perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering
up at the thought.
"I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he
nice?"