plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."
"That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I
suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little
sentimental.
"What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to
him, hardly," cried Jo, who was _not_ sentimental.
"I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to
behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent
him."
"He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose."
"How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course."
"Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her
before.
"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it,"
said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.
"I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly,
and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have
any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be
good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he _may_ come over
and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?"
"Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will
remember that children should be children as long as they can."
"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed
Amy. "What do you say, Beth?"
"I was thinking about our 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" answered Beth, who had
not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket
Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying; and that
maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our
Palace Beautiful."
"We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she rather
liked the prospect.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
VI.
BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL.
The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for
all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr.
Laurence was the biggest one; but after he had called, said something
funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with
their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The
other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich; for this
made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But,
after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and
could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's
motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in
that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride, and
interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.
All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time; for the new
friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and
he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly
splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the
solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he found
something very charming in the innocent companionship of these
simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick
to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy, lively
ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of
books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged
to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always playing
truant, and running over to the Marches.
"Never mind; let him take a holiday, and make it up afterwards," said
the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too
hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is
right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his
grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can't
get into mischief in that little nunnery over there; and Mrs. March is
doing more for him than we can."
What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux, such
sleigh-rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old
parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg
could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and revel in
bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the
old gentleman with her criticisms; Amy copied pictures, and enjoyed
beauty to her heart's content; and Laurie played "lord of the manor" in
the most delightful style.
But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up
courage to go to the "Mansion of Bliss," as Meg called it. She went once
with Jo; but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared
at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so loud,
that he frightened her so much her "feet chattered on the floor," she
told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would never go there
any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements
could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in
some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the
brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and
talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had
heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to
stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if
fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening,
with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of
this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had
been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers;
and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs.
March,--
"The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting
too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some of
your girls like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to
keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"
Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep
from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the
thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath
away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd
little nod and smile,--
"They needn't see or speak to any one, but run in at any time; for I'm
shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great
deal, and the servants are never near the drawing-room after nine
o'clock."
Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that
last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please tell the young
ladies what I say; and if they don't care to come, why, never mind."
Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a
face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way,--
"O sir, they do care, very, very much!"
[Illustration: O sir, they do care very much]
"Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he
looked down at her very kindly.
"I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody
will hear me--and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and
trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
"Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day; so come, and drum
away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you."
"How kind you are, sir!"
Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore; but she was
not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze, because
she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her.
The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and,
stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard,--
"I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear!
Good day, madam;" and away he went, in a great hurry.
Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the
glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at home.
How blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed at her,
because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in
her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of
the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the
side-door, and made her way, as noiselessly as any mouse, to the
drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some
pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with trembling fingers, and
frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great
instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything
else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was
like the voice of a beloved friend.
She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she had no
appetite, and could only sit and smile upon every one in a general state
of beatitude.
After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every
day, and the great drawing-room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that
came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence often opened his
study-door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked; she never saw Laurie
mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away; she never suspected
that the exercise-books and new songs which she found in the rack were
put there for her especial benefit; and when he talked to her about
music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that
helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what
isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped.
Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a
greater was given her; at any rate, she deserved both.
[Illustration: Mr. Laurence often opened his study door]
"Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so
kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do
it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
"Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking
him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making
up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's
requests, because she so seldom asked anything for herself.
After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen,
the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet
cheerful pansies, on a deeper purple ground, was pronounced very
appropriate and pretty; and Beth worked away early and late, with
occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needle-woman,
and they were finished before any one got tired of them. Then she wrote
a very short, simple note, and, with Laurie's help, got them smuggled on
to the study-table one morning before the old gentleman was up.
When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All
that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgment
arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crotchety
friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an
errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As
she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four, heads
popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her,
several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed,--
"Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!"
"O Beth, he's sent you--" began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy;
but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window.
Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door, her sisters
seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all
pointing, and all saying at once, "Look there! look there!" Beth did
look, and turned pale with delight and surprise; for there stood a
little cabinet-piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed,
like a sign-board, to "Miss Elizabeth March."
"For me?" gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if she should
tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.
"Yes; all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you
think he's the dearest old man in the world? Here's the key in the
letter. We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says," cried
Jo, hugging her sister, and offering the note.
"You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and Beth
hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.
Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she saw
were,--
"MISS MARCH:
"_Dear Madam_,--"
"How nice it sounds! I wish some one would write to me so!" said Amy,
who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.
"'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had
any that suited me so well as yours,'" continued Jo.
"'Heart's-ease is my favorite flower, and these will always
remind me of the gentle giver. I like to pay my debts; so I
know you will allow "the old gentleman" to send you something
which once belonged to the little granddaughter he lost. With
hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain,
"'Your grateful friend and humble servant,
"'JAMES LAURENCE.'"
"There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me
how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept
all her little things carefully. Just think, he's given you her piano.
That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said Jo, trying to
soothe Beth, who trembled, and looked more excited than she had ever
been before.
"See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk,
puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and
stool, all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying
its beauties.
"'Your humble servant, James Laurence'; only think of his writing that
to you. I'll tell the girls. They'll think it's splendid," said Amy,
much impressed by the note.
"Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the baby-pianny," said Hannah,
who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.
So Beth tried it; and every one pronounced it the most remarkable piano
ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie
order; but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm of it lay in the
happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly
touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright
pedals.
"You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke; for the
idea of the child's really going never entered her head.
"Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking
about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth
walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the
Laurences' door.
"Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The
pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right mind,"
cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite
speechless by the miracle.
They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did
afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the
study-door before she gave herself time to think; and when a gruff voice
called out, "Come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who
looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a
small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for--" But she
didn't finish; for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech,
and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put
both arms round his neck, and kissed him.
[Illustration: She put both arms around his neck and kissed him]
If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman
wouldn't have been more astonished; but he liked it,--oh, dear, yes, he
liked it amazingly!--and was so touched and pleased by that confiding
little kiss that all his crustiness vanished; and he just set her on his
knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he
had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him
from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cosily as if she had
known him all her life; for love casts out fear, and gratitude can
conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own gate,
shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again,
looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old
gentleman, as he was.
When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of
expressing her satisfaction; Amy nearly fell out of the window in her
surprise; and Meg exclaimed, with uplifted hands, "Well, I do believe
the world is coming to an end!"
VII.
AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION.
[Illustration: The Cyclops]
"That boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy, one day, as Laurie
clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
"How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very handsome
ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about
her friend.
"I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire
up when I admire his riding."
"Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him
a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter.
"You needn't be so rude; it's only a 'lapse of lingy,' as Mr. Davis
says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a
little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to
herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
"Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's
second blunder.
"I need it so much; I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to
have the rag-money for a month."
"In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober.
"Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you
know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged
at the shop."
"Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking
bits of rubber to make balls;" and Meg tried to keep her countenance,
Amy looked so grave and important.
"Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to
be thought mean, you must do it, too. It's nothing but limes now, for
every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading
them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at
recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad
with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even a suck.
They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't returned
them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know."
"How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking
out her purse.
"A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat
for you. Don't you like limes?"
"Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long
as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."
"Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket-money! I'll have a
grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate
about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering
for one."
Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the
temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper
parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four
delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat,
circulated through her "set," and the attentions of her friends became
quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the
spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and
Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her
limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish
answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's
cutting remarks about "some persons whose noses were not too flat to
smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people, who were not too proud
to ask for them;" and she instantly crushed "that Snow girl's" hopes by
the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for
you won't get any."
A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and
Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe
rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the
airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a
fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success.
No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed
himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important question,
informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her
desk.
Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly
vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the
law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing-gum after
a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and
newspapers, had suppressed a private post-office, had forbidden
distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that
one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys
are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are
infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen, with tyrannical
tempers, and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis
knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, Algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so
he was called a fine teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and
examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most
unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had
evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an east
wind, which always affected his neuralgia; and his pupils had not done
him the credit which he felt he deserved: therefore, to use the
expressive, if not elegant, language of a school-girl, "he was as
nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear." The word "limes" was like
fire to powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with
an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.
"Young ladies, attention, if you please!"
At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black,
gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.
"Miss March, come to the desk."
Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed
her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
"Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected
command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
"Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence
of mind.
Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr.
Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when
that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis
particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust
added to his wrath.
"Is that all?"
"Not quite," stammered Amy.
"Bring the rest immediately."
With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
"You are sure there are no more?"
"I never lie, sir."
"So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them
out of the window."
There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the
last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.
Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times;
and as each doomed couple--looking oh! so plump and juicy--fell from her
reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the
girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the
little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This--this was too
much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable
Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears.
As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!"
and said, in his most impressive manner,--
"Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry
this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I
_never_ break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand."