rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its
garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where
we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good
many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we
ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?"
"Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big
closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to
make. The woman's face is not good,--it's too beautiful for me to
draw,--but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to
think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and
that helps me."
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee, Mrs.
March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said
nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she
added gravely,--
"I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the
ring to-day; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my
finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me
always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too
big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?"
"They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such
ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with
the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard,
formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together.
"I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only
because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story
wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."
"Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing.
"No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere
about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to
the little plan.
"I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,' and
being selfish is the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard to cure
it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason every one loves
her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel
half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them;
but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm
going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my
resolutions; but if I had something always about me to remind me, I
guess I should do better. May I try this way?"
"Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your
ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere
wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up
your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again."
That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the
traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped up stairs into Beth's room, and,
finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her
fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
"What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face
which invited confidence.
"I want to tell you something, mother."
"About Meg?"
"How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little
thing, it fidgets me."
"Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't
been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
"No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo,
settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg
left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was returned.
We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He
kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked
him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare
say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a _dread_ful
state of things?"
"Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.
"Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls
show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and
acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort: she eats
and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature: she looks straight in
my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when
Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me
as he ought."
"Then you fancy that Meg is _not_ interested in John?"
"Who?" cried Jo, staring.
"Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so at
the hospital, and he likes it."
"Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father, and
you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean
thing! to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into
liking him;" and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
"My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened.
John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor
father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open
and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a
comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our
leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him
if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse
to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so
young."
"Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing;
I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry
Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, "Jo, I
confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John
comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings
toward him."
"She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then
it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt
like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at her. She read
the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me
when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly
name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and
fun, and cosy times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around
the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good
to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off,
and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and
everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we
all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."
Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook
her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up
with an air of relief.
"You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we
always have been."
"I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to
homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I
can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only
seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a home for
her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in
any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one
another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is
conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My
pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her."
"Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's
voice faltered a little over the last words.
"Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never
feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should
like to know that John was firmly established in some good business,
which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make
Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable
position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with
love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your
good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can
be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and
some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see
Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the
possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune."
"I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg,
for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of
luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up, with a
brighter face.
"He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,--
"Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite
grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and
good, and loves us all; and _I_ say it's a pity my plan is spoilt."
"I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether too
much of a weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't make
plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't
meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic
rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."
"Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and
getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten
it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from
growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,--more's the
pity!"
"What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into
the room, with the finished letter in her hand.
"Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy," said
Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.
"Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to
John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it
back.
"Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother's.
"Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
"I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so
inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She
does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Letters]
XXI.
LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE.
Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her,
and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed
it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned
that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt
sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather
surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed
a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn
assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother.
This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as
nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long
confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as
she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an
incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.
She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a
mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of
it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected
indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he
knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance,
he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling
indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his
wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in
preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change
seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike
herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very
quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face.
To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's
she silenced by begging to be let alone.
"She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's
got most of the symptoms,--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies
awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her,
and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy.
Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however
violent.
"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's
coming will settle everything," replied her mother.
"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals
mine," said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little
post-office.
Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg
made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened
face.
"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried
to take the paper which had done the mischief.
"It's all a mistake--he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do it?" and
Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.
"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered.
Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from
her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,--
"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so
mean, and cruel to us both?"
Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which
was written in a peculiar hand.
[Illustration: Jo and her mother were reading the note]
"MY DEAREST MARGARET,--
"I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate
before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think
they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr.
Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet
girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to
your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to
"Your devoted JOHN."
"Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping
my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over
to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her
mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore,--
"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many
pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this."
"On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't
know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that
they believed her. "If I _had_ taken a part in it I'd have done it
better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd
have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added,
scornfully tossing down the paper.
"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her
hand.
"O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly.
"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
"Here's a scrape! _Do_ let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and
be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the
door again.
"Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret,
tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet
keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.
"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew
anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at
first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr.
Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a
few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I
was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such
things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never
can look him in the face again."
"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.
"I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't
wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very
grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,
for a long while."
Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands,
exclaiming, with a laugh,--
"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence!
Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?"
"He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent
any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo,
should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and
respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo
tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she
stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely,
said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these
letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because
I wouldn't tell him my secret."
"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble,
as I should have done," said Meg warningly.
"Bless you, child! Mother told me."
"That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall
sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings.
"Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he
can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the
present?"
"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do
with lovers for a long while,--perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly.
"If John _doesn't_ know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him,
and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and
plagued and made a fool of,--it's a shame!"
Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by
this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire
silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step
was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received
the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he
wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and
stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a
sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of
voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened
during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such
a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it
wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much
comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.
"I'll never tell him to my dying day,--wild horses sha'n't drag it out
of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how
out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think
you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide
her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a
month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands
together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly
persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of
his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face
relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him
declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and
abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and
succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire
disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed
no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till
the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked
off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when
Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy.
After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed
with a book to return, went over to the big house.
"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down
stairs.
"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."
"Why not? is he ill?"
"La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of
his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I
dursn't go nigh him."
"Where is Laurie?"
"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I
don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's
no one to eat it."
"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them."
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study.
"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young
gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced,
before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really
_was_ out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite
expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly,
"Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't
go away till I have."
"It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier
reply to her petition.
[Illustration: Get up and don't be a goose]
"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look
exactly easy in your mind."
"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly.
"Who did it?" demanded Jo.
"Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have--" and the injured
youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
"That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo
soothingly.
"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake
_me_."
"I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like
a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?"
"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd
promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word."
"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"
"No; he _would_ have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing
Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the
old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I
should forget myself."
"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll
help you."
"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every
one, just for a bit of a frolic. I _was_ sorry about Meg, and begged
pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."
"He didn't know that."
"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo;
he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need
any one's apron-string to hold on by."
"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this
affair?"
"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell
him what the fuss's about."
"Bless you! he won't do that."
"I won't go down till he does."
"Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You
can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"
"I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a
journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast
enough."
"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him."