along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to
dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's window
I saw tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black tail, not so
thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came over me all of a sudden that I
had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I
walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for
mine."
"I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth, in a tone of awe.
"Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his
hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls
bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't
care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much
for it in the first place; the work put into it made it dear, and so on.
It was getting late, and I was afraid, if it wasn't done right away,
that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a
thing, I hate to give it up; so I begged him to take it, and told him
why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his
mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy
way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly,--
"'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd do as much for our
Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.'"
"Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they
went along.
"Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make
strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man
clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."
[Illustration: The man clipped]
"Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a
shiver.
"I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that
was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that; I will
confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on
the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my head. It almost
seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and
picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just
to remember past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don't think
I shall ever have a mane again."
Mrs. March folded the wavy, chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short
gray one in her desk. She only said "Thank you, deary," but something in
her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as
they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day
to-morrow, and the happy times they would have when father came home to
be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock, Mrs. March put by the
last finished job, and said, "Come, girls." Beth went to the piano and
played the father's favorite hymn; all began bravely, but broke down
one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to
her music was always a sweet consoler.
"Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need all
the sleep we can get. Good-night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as the
hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear
invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of
the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts
she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister
fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she
touched a wet cheek,--
"Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?"
"No, not now."
"What then?"
"My--my hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion
in the pillow.
It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the
afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
"I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again to-morrow,
if I could. It's only the vain, selfish part of me that goes and cries
in this silly way. Don't tell any one, it's all over now. I thought you
were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How
came you to be awake?"
"I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.
"Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
"I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."
"What did you think of?"
"Handsome faces,--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself,
in the dark.
"What color do you like best?"
"Brown--that is, sometimes; blue are lovely."
Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably
promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in
her castle in the air.
The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as a
figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here,
settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each
unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to
pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the
curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from
behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face,
which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear soul! There
is always light behind the clouds."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Letters]
XVI.
LETTERS.
In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp, and read their chapter
with an earnestness never felt before; for now the shadow of a real
trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort; and,
as they dressed, they agreed to say good-by cheerfully and hopefully,
and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or
complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went
down,--so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within.
Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face
looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her night-cap on.
The big trunk stood ready in the hall, mother's cloak and bonnet lay on
the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and
worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to
keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo
was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once; and
the little girls' wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a
new experience to them.
Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, and they sat waiting
for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied
about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of
her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up
her travelling bag,--
"Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection.
Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as
if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you
should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone,
or think that you can comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to
forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace.
Hope and keep busy; and whatever happens, remember that you never can be
fatherless."
"Yes, mother."
"Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and, in
any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get despondent
or do rash things; write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to
help and cheer us all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be
faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help all you can, be
obedient, and keep happy safe at home."
"We will, mother! we will!"
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.
That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well: no one cried, no
one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very
heavy as they sent loving messages to father, remembering, as they
spoke, that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their
mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands
cheerfully when she drove away.
Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke
looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him
"Mr. Greatheart" on the spot.
"Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs. March,
as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the
carriage.
As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back, she saw it
shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They saw it also,
and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing she beheld, as she
turned the corner, was the four bright faces, and behind them, like a
body-guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.
[Illustration: She rolled away]
"How kind every one is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of
it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
"I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so
infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling; and so the long
journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful
words.
"I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their neighbors
went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
"It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile
of nicely-mended hose which lay on mother's table, showing that even in
her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a
little thing, but it went straight to their hearts; and, in spite of
their brave resolutions, they all broke down, and cried bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and, when the
shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a
coffee-pot.
"Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret.
Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work,
and be a credit to the family."
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that
morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant
invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee-pot. They drew up to the
table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes
were all right again.
"'Hope and keep busy;' that's the motto for us, so let's see who will
remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she
lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
"I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend
to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
"No need of that; Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in Amy,
with an important air.
"Hannah will tell us what to do; and we'll have everything nice when you
come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish-tub without delay.
"I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar,
pensively.
The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg
shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a
sugar-bowl.
The sight of the turn-overs made Jo sober again; and when the two went
out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window
where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone; but
Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was,
nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin.
"That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face.
"Good-by, Meggy; I hope the Kings won't train to-day. Don't fret about
father, dear," she added, as they parted.
"And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair _is_ becoming, and it
looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the
curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders.
"That's my only comfort;" and, touching her hat _à la_ Laurie, away went
Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much; for, though
dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had
already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and, as the
head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the despatches, which grew
more and more cheering as the week passed. At first, every one was eager
to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter-box
by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their
Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained
characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and
read them:--
"MY DEAREST MOTHER,--
"It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made
us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and
crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate
that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long,
since he is so useful to you and father. The girls are all as
good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing
all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if
I didn't know that her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is
as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what
you told her. She grieves about father, and looks sober except
when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I
take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am
teaching her to make button-holes and mend her stockings. She
tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her
improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a
motherly old hen, as Jo says; and Laurie is very kind and
neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue
sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah
is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and always calls
me Miss 'Margaret,' which is quite proper, you know, and treats
me with respect. We are all well and busy; but we long, day
and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to father,
and believe me, ever your own
"MEG."
This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to
the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper,
ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed
letters:--
"MY PRECIOUS MARMEE,--
"Three cheers for dear father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph
right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed
up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank God for
being so good to us; but I could only cry, and say, 'I'm glad!
I'm glad!' Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? for I
felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times; and
now I can enjoy them, for every one is so desperately good,
it's like living in a nest of turtle-doves. You'd laugh to see
Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier
every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are
regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be
anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a
quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little
thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I
ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till
I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't, and got mad. It lasted
all day; I felt bad, and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are
both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon; but I thought he'd come
to it, for I _was_ in the right. He didn't come; and just at
night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river.
I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun
set on _my_ anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I
met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both
laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and
comfortable again.
"I made a 'pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash; and,
as father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse
him. Give him the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself
a dozen times for your
"TOPSY-TURVY JO."
"A SONG FROM THE SUDS.
"Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high;
And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
"I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing-day!
"Along the path of a useful life,
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow or care or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
As we bravely wield a broom.
"I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,--
'Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
But, Hand, you shall work alway!'"
"DEAR MOTHER,--
"There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed
pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for
father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day,
and sing myself to sleep with father's tune. I can't sing 'Land
of the Leal' now; it makes me cry. Every one is very kind, and
we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of
the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders,
and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
"Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon
to your loving
"LITTLE BETH."
[Illustration: I wind the clock]
"MA CHERE MAMMA,--
"We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate
the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words
and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me
and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo
says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as
respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he
calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me
very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The
sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new
ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than
the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well
but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and
have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that
interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling
are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many
things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to
Papa.
"Your affectionate daughter,
"AMY CURTIS MARCH."
"DEAR MIS MARCH,--
"I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is
clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a
proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits
the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin
ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never
know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of
clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore they was
wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should
a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a
sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She
tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her
years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful.
We have got on very economical so fur; I don't let the girls
hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em
on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin
her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full
of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent;
but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing.
The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin,
but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is
riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and
hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia.
"Yours Respectful,
"HANNAH MULLET."
[Illustration: Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet]
"HEAD NURSE OF WARD NO. 2,--
"All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition,
commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under
Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander-in-chief General
Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullett keeps
order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A
salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news
from Washington, and a dress parade took place at
head-quarters. Commander-in-chief sends best wishes, in which
he is heartily joined by
"COLONEL TEDDY."
"DEAR MADAM,--
"The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily;
Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon.
Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw
on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let
your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.
"Your sincere friend and servant,
"JAMES LAURENCE."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
XVII.
LITTLE FAITHFUL.
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the
neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly
frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their
first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their
praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways.
They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to
grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that
Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and
was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't
like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and
after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa
to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and
art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went
daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much
time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the
Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight
relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were
faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were
forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone
a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears
for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the
folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed
her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up
after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was,
and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small
affairs.
All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and,
when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and
deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do
well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
"Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us not
to forget them," said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.
"Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth.
"Too stormy for me with my cold."
"I thought it was almost well."
"It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to
go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of
her inconsistency.
"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg.
"I _have_ been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to
do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it;
but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go."
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.
"Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth; the air
will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go, but I want
to finish my writing."
"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought may be some of you would go,"
said Beth.
"Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg.
"Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her."