had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on.
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we
were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by
nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."
"Poor mother! what helped you then?"
"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,--never doubts or
complains,--but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that
one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me,
and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have
my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try
for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of
you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have
done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the
sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would
have them copy."
"O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried
Jo, much touched.
"I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch
over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not
spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart
and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater
sorrow and regret than you have known to-day."
"I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and
keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger
on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you
always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?"
asked Jo softly.
"Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me
from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."
Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she
spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,
"Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be
rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so
safe and happy here."
"My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how
much I love them."
"I thought I'd grieved you."
"No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his
little daughters safe and good for him."
"Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never
complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering.
"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and
will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need
help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort
and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are
beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if
you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as
you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the
nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power
and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken
from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and
strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little
cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as
you come to your mother."
Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which
followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart
without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only
the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial
and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to
the Friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of
any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once
to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it
had never worn before.
"I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and to-day,
if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I
be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister,
softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a
smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they
hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was
forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
[Illustration: Packing the go abroady trunk]
IX.
MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR.
"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the "go abroady" trunk in her room, surrounded by her
sisters.
"And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like a
windmill, as she folded skirts with her long arms.
"And such lovely weather; I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.
"I wish I was going to have a fine time, and wear all these nice
things," said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister's cushion.
"I wish you were all going; but, as you can't, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can
do, when you have been so kind, lending me things, and helping me get
ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
"What did mother give you out of the treasure-box?" asked Amy, who had
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest, in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
the proper time came.
"A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn't time to make it over, so
I must be contented with my old tarlatan."
"It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
"There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box; but
mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me
see; there's my new gray walking-suit--just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth,--then my poplin, for Sunday, and the small party,--it looks
heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice; oh,
dear!"
"Never mind; you've got the tarlatan for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store
of finery in which her soul delighted.
"It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to
do. My blue house-dress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion,
and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's; I didn't like to say
anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told mother
black, with a white handle, but she forgot, and bought a green one, with
a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain,
but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a
gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.
"Change it," advised Jo.
"I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not
going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
are my comfort. You are a dear, to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich,
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for
common;" and Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove-box.
"Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night-caps; would you put
some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah's hands.
"No, I wouldn't; for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns, without
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly.
"I wonder if I shall _ever_ be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes, and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently.
"You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth, in her quiet way.
"So I did! Well, I _am_ happy, and I _won't_ fret; but it does seem as
if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There, now, the
trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall
leave for mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from
the half-filled trunk to the many-times pressed and mended white
tarlatan, which she called her "ball-dress," with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg departed, in style, for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented
than she went. But she had begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to
take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after
a winter of irksome work, that the mother yielded, and the daughter went
to take her first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats _were_ very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its
occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life
they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,
without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or
intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal
the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was
agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best
frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her
exactly; and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her; to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well
as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the more
she envied her, and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal
as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she
was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves
and silk stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in "having a good time." They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day; went to theatres and operas, or frolicked at
home in the evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew how to
entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one
was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.
Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father; and Mrs.
Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her
daughter had done. Every one petted her; and "Daisy," as they called
her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
When the evening for the "small party" came, she found that the poplin
wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses,
and making themselves very fine indeed; so out came the tarlatan,
looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's crisp new
one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
cheeks began to burn, for, with all her gentleness, she was very proud.
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
arms; but in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed,
chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter
feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of
flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were
exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
"It's for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff.
"They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.
"What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
"The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg simply,
yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
"Oh, indeed!" said Annie, with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride; for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was "the sweetest little thing she
ever saw;" and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency; and when all the rest
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair, and
fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so _very_
shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart's content; every one was very kind, and she had three compliments.
Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice;
Major Lincoln asked who "the fresh little girl, with the beautiful
eyes," was; and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her, because she
"didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her," as he gracefully expressed
it. So, altogether, she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit
of a conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just
inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice,
when she heard a voice ask, on the other side of the flowery wall,--
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice.
"It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."
"Mrs M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs.
Moffat.
"She told that fib about her mamma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing! she'd be so nice if
she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice.
"She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is
all she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will be a good
excuse for offering a decent one."
"We'll see. I shall ask young Laurence, as a compliment to her, and
we'll have fun about it afterward."
[Illustration: Meg's partner appeared]
Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather
agitated. She _was_ proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it
helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had
just heard; for, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not
help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it,
but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M. has made her
plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlatan," till she was
ready to cry, and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As
that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay; and, being rather
excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she
was making. She was very glad when it was all over, and she was quiet in
her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached
and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish,
yet well-meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed
the peace of the old one, in which, till now, she had lived as happily
as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly
speeches she had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little shaken
by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others
by herself; and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple
wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter, was weakened by the
unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest
calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly, and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled
that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even
to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends
struck Meg at once; they treated her with more respect, she thought;
took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with
eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her
writing, and said, with a sentimental air,--
"Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper compliment
to you."
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely,--
"You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come."
"Why not, _chérie_?" asked Miss Belle.
"He's too old."
"My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!" cried Miss
Clara.
"Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches, to hide
the merriment in her eyes.
"You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
"There isn't any; Laurie is only a little boy," and Meg laughed also at
the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
supposed lover.
"About your age," Nan said.
"Nearer my sister Jo's; _I_ am seventeen in August," returned Meg,
tossing her head.
"It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.
"Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we are
so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
so it is quite natural that we children should play together;" and Meg
hoped they would say no more.
"It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle, with a
nod.
"Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle,
with a shrug.
"I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do
anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in, like
an elephant, in silk and lace.
"No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for
Thursday, and don't want a thing."
"Nor I,--" began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her that she
_did_ want several things, and could not have them.
"What shall you wear?" asked Sallie.
"My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen; it got sadly
torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.
"Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
"I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie
did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise,--
"Only that? How funny--" She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook
her head at her, and broke in, saying kindly,--
"Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't
out? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen,
for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown, and you
shall wear it, to please me, won't you, dear?"
"You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress, if you don't; it does
well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg.
"Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do
it, and you'd be a regular little beauty, with a touch here and there. I
sha'n't let any one see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon
them like Cinderella and her godmother, going to the ball," said Belle,
in her persuasive tone.
Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she
would be "a little beauty" after touching up, caused her to accept, and
forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid; and,
between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added "a _soupçon_ of rouge," if Meg had not rebelled. They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even ear-rings, for Hortense tied them on, with a bit of
pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of tea-rosebuds at the bosom,
and a _ruche_, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white
shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled blue silk boots satisfied the last
wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a
silver holder finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"Mademoiselle is charmante, très jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
"Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her ear-rings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her
"fun" had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that
she _was_ "a little beauty." Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically; and, for several minutes, she stood, like the jackdaw
in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered
like a party of magpies.
"While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt,
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands," said
Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
"I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff and half-dressed,"
said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the
young ladies to appear at once.
"You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I
assure you. Let your flowers hang; don't be so careful of them, and be
sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was
prettier than herself.
[Illustration: Asked to be introduced]
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs,
and sailed into the drawing-rooms, where the Moffats and a few early
guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm
about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people, and secures
their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her
before, were very affectionate all of a sudden; several young gentlemen,
who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but
asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable
things to her; and several old ladies, who sat on sofas, and criticised
the rest of the party, inquired who she was, with an air of interest.
She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them,--
"Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her."