that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy,
surveying her with delight, when all was done.
"Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and don't
mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it
to-day;" and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her
with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed
the old.
"Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few
minutes with father quietly in the study;" and Meg ran down to perform
these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she
went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there
was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first
bird from the nest.
As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their
simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which
three years have wrought in their appearance; for all are looking their
best just now.
Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,
more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a
fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day.
Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful,
kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one,
although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches
the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth seldom complains,
and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon."
Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family;" for at sixteen
she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman--not beautiful, but
possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the
lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her
dress, the droop of her hair,--unconscious, yet harmonious, and as
attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for
it never _would_ grow Grecian; so did her mouth, being too wide, and
having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her
whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her
wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls, more golden and
abundant than ever.
All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the
summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just
what they were,--fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in
their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the
romance of womanhood.
There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as
natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she was
scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to
find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to
catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave
countenance, and a wine-bottle under each arm.
"Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the
seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender
_moire_ with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last
minute, child."
"I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticise my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer;" and away
went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief, with
a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous
exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a
momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived,
and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a child.
"Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.
"He has promised to be very good to-day, and he _can_ be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to
beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady
with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room
as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green arch.
Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up; the
fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the
service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled
visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in her
husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own
face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt March sniffed
audibly.
Jo did _not_ cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved
from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his
wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder,
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly
married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and, turning, gave it
with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked
more like a rose than ever, for every one availed themselves of their
privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who,
adorned with a head-dress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her
in the hall, crying, with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a
hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."
Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried
to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little
house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of
cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March
shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were
found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried
round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who insisted on
serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand
and a puzzled expression on his face.
"Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this
morning?"
"No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and
despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that wine
should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her
daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof."
Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh; but he
did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous
way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish other women
would think as you do."
"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious
accent in Meg's voice.
"No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either; this
is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common
as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it; but when a pretty
girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."
"But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
day of my life."
A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment,
for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if
he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and, feeling her
power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak,
but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness,
and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything to-day." Laurie
certainly could not; and, with an answering smile, he gave her his hand,
saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"
"I thank you, very, very much."
"And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing
him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and beamed
approvingly upon him.
So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in spite of
many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had seized a
happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all
his life.
After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through house
and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John
happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot, when
Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to
this unfashionable wedding.
"All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband
and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in
couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with
such infectious spirit and skill that every one else followed their
example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol,
began it; others rapidly joined in; even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's
hesitation, threw her train over her arm, and whisked Ned into the ring.
But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March; for when the
stately old gentleman _chasséed_ solemnly up to the old lady, she just
tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands
with the rest, and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks
pervaded the garden, like butterflies on a midsummer day.
Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people
began to go.
"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think you'll
be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as
he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that
you deserve it."
"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't
see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat
to her husband, as they drove away.
"Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get
one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy-chair to
rest, after the excitement of the morning.
"I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful
reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his button-hole.
The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had
was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When she
came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and
straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say
"good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.
"Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love
you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her
mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every day, father,
and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I _am_
married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls
will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank
you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!"
They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands
full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy face,--and
so Meg's married life began.
[Illustration: Artistic Attempts]
XXVI.
ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS.
It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and
genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this
distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm for
inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie" business, and she
devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed
such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant
and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid
aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted,
the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration; for the odor of
burning wood pervaded the house at all hours; smoke issued from attic
and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about
promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and
the dinner-bell at her door, in case of fire. Raphael's face was found
boldly executed on the under side of the moulding-board, and Bacchus on
the head of a beer-barrel; a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied
kindlings for some time.
From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her
out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she daubed
away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on
land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken
prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her vessels
would have produced sea-sickness in the most nautical observer, if the
utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not
convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and
dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a lurid streak in
the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropsical infants,
Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange
lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash
in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a
king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened
into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good, and
Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced
"wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly
casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off
closet-shelves on to people's heads. Children were enticed in as models,
till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy
to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line,
however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which
quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook
to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an
unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the
young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast
in a pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity.
With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so
overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too far,
cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt,
at least.
[Illustration: Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster]
After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her
to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing
for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to
book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and
a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of clouds," that looked like
a choice display of feather-beds when done. She sacrificed her
complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun, to study light
and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose, trying after "points of
sight," or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.
If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo affirms, Amy
certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in
spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing
that in time she should do something worthy to be called "high art."
She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she
had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she
never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she was one
of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends
everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate
souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an
instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right
thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and
was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to
court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the _best_ really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed
them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not
admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she
cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the
opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty
now excluded her.
"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine
lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.
"I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with an
important air, one day.
"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the
stately young lady still remained "the baby."
"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate
for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to
see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things
they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and
I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I am poor, yet they never
made any difference."
"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls
called her "Maria Theresa air."
"You know as well as I that it _does_ make a difference with nearly
every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know;" and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a
happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,--
"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them a
drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and
make a little artistic _fête_ for them."
"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches,
fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?"
"Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and
ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my
lunch to be proper and elegant, though I _do_ work for my living."
"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look
sober.
"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."
"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
about."
"Why, mother, how _can_ you think of such a thing? Not more than six or
eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow Mr.
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of _char-à-banc_.)
"All this will be expensive, Amy."
"Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and
the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be
pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us
than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not
in keeping with our circumstances?"
"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know
that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help
a little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,"
said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into
obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it
was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she
would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice
as much as they did salts and senna.
"Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way
through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say
no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll
do my best to help you."
"Thanks, mother; you are always _so_ kind;" and away went Amy to lay her
plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best salt-spoons.
But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have nothing to do with
it at first.
"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle
to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a
_coupé_," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax of her
novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
"I _don't_ truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions
arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great
deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you
call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go
into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I
mean to make the most of every chance that comes. _You_ can go through
the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That's not my way."
When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best
of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo
carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an
unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an
argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good
hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable
turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day
to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as "a
nonsensical business."