they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books,
was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and
comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous
times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband
and father.
The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and
outlives death.
Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we
saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers' widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.
John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent
home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life and love
are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his
discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business,
and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence
that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers,
and accepted the place of book-keeper feeling better satisfied to begin
with an honestly-earned salary, than by running any risks with borrowed
money.
Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in
character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever; for love is
a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt
some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin.
Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help
contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid
outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But
somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the
patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her;
and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small
plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot
Sallie's splendor, and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in
Christendom.
Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of
the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would
have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her
afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo, meantime, devoted
herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the
fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again
the rosy, healthy creature she had been; yet always hopeful, happy, and
serene, busy with the quiet duties she loved, every one's friend, and an
angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to
know it.
As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her
"rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun
her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy
brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a
slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place
the name of March upon the roll of fame.
Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was
now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please
himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent,
and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to
get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoilt,
and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had
not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man
who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over
him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the
knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him
with all their hearts.
Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and flirted,
grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions
ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came
perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the
love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save
himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible
power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather
prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with
graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified
professors, and vanquished enemies. The "men of my class" were heroes in
the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of "our
fellows," and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these
great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him.
Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among
them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her
private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and
Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder how Amy dared to
order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her element, and found it very
difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases,
and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed
for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love
with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a
sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment
brings us very naturally to the "Dove-cote."
That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like a
pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a tiny
house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as a
pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at present,
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault
from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow, it was
fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in
whole; the dining-room was so small that six people were a tight fit;
and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of
precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coal-bin. But
once get used to these slight blemishes, and nothing could be more
complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the
furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no
marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little
parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a
stand of flowers in the bay-window, and, scattered all about, the pretty
gifts which came from friendly hands, and were the fairer for the loving
messages they brought.
I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with good
wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and her
mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am morally
certain that the spandy-new kitchen never _could_ have looked so cosey
and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times
over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis. Brooke
came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so
rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth made enough
to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three
different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal
china.
People who hire all these things done for them never know what they
lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them,
and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her small nest,
from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was
eloquent of home love and tender forethought.
What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy as
ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly visits,
some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a
bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful nutmeg-grater, which
fell to pieces at the first trial; a knife-cleaner that spoilt all the
knives; or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet, and left
the dirt; labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands;
infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the
deluded buyer; and every kind of tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own
steam, with every prospect of exploding in the process.
In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him
"Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee
ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week
beheld some fresh absurdity.
Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored
soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table
for the first meal.
"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you
should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went
through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to cling
together more tenderly than ever.
"Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and _so_ happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg, with a look that was better
than words.
"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether
the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantle-piece.
"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try
her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty to run my
errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to
keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly.
"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.
"If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big
blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles.
"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her
fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that
there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big
one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves
nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first
married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so
that I might have the pleasure of mending them; for I got heartily sick
of doing fancy work and tending my pocket handkerchief."
"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she
does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well, and the
servants laugh at her," said Meg.
"I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how things
should be done, that my servants need _not_ laugh at me. It was play
then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only
possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little
girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You
begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn now will be
of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for the mistress of
a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she
wishes to be well and honestly served."
"Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the
little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the
all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet.
Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves, and
exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke; for that
linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married "that
Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in
a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her
vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to
get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy
herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made,
and marked, a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as
_her_ present, all of which was faithfully done; but the secret leaked
out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family; for Aunt March tried to look
utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the
old-fashioned pearls, long promised to the first bride.
"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend
who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for
company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask
table-cloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.
"I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will last
me all my days, Hannah says;" and Meg looked quite contented, as well
she might.
"Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down to meet
Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their quiet lives.
A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt-basin
of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the road at a great
pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate,
straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a hearty--
"Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."
The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a
kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the
little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.
"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments.
Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are
getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."
As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's
hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of
mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and every one began
to talk.
"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.
"Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."
"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in
feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen years.
"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."
"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant smile.
"More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie
gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.
"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying
the knobby parcel with curiosity.
"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of
the girls.
[Illustration: A small watchman's rattle]
"Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just
swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood
in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its
powers that made them cover up their ears.
"There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me to
mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."
"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.
"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six
feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the
young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and
span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.
"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to
settle," said Meg, bustling away.
"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I
can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do;
it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial
aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered him her arm to support his
feeble steps.
"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began Jo,
as they strolled away together. "You _must_ promise to behave well, and
not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
"Not a prank."
"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
"I never do; you are the one for that."
"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall
certainly laugh if you do."
"You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you
will obscure the prospect."
"I never cry unless for some great affliction."
"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.
"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."
"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"
"Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll take
it?" asked Jo rather sharply.
"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say 'All
right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air.
"No, I don't."
"Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said Laurie,
walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
"You spend a great deal, Teddy."
"Bless you, _I_ don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone
before I know it."
"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and
can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did for
him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
said Jo warmly.
"Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a little
help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"
"Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I
thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,--to
make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a strait-jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."
Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that
the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded
him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a
rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed
it into his pocket.
"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through
the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up
regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a satisfaction to my friends."
"I'll leave you in peace if you'll _only_ let your hair grow. I'm not
aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like
a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely.
"This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it," returned
Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily
sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble.
"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate
about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in
a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud,
hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder-brotherly tone, after
a minute's silence.
"Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family for
years to come. Mercy on us, what _are_ the children thinking of?" and Jo
looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in
their teens.
"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are
a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting,"
said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.
"Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want
me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a
family."
"You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance,
and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You won't
show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a peep at it
by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as
Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart,--throw cold water over him,--and get
so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."
"I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we
talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get
cross, so let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling
cold water on the slightest provocation.
Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a
long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted at the
gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: The First Wedding]
XXV.
THE FIRST WEDDING.
The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that
morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like
friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement
were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one
another what they had seen; for some peeped in at the dining-room
windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at
the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those
who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and
all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby-bud, offered
their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had
loved and tended them so long.
Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and sweetest
in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair
and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace,
nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want to look strange or
fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a fashionable wedding, but
only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my
familiar self."
So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes
and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her
pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the
valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew.