it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising
book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a
heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one
minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man says 'An exquisite
book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness; all is sweet, pure, and
healthy,'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of
the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and
unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't
believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see
how this critic _can_ be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best
American novels which has appeared for years' (I know better than that);
and the next asserts that 'though it is original, and written with great
force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of
it, some over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd
printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally;
yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so
well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's
best education; and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at
her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the
wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly;
"and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts that were
taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,
and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So I'll comfort myself with
that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Domestic Experiences]
XXVIII.
DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES.
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too
tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic after a course of
dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she
soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the
carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,
and then see if _his_ work would stand impatient tugs and clumsy fingers
any better than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live
on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though she
beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot; nor did Meg miss any
of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his
kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send home veal or mutton for
dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but
it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change
for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it
like children; then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of
the head of a family upon his shoulders; and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's Receipt
Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems
with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat
up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately
despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all
eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels. An evening with
John over the account-books usually produced a temporary lull in the
culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor
man was put through a course of bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over
coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy
fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however, Meg added to her
domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without,--a
family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John
was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and an extra
quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were to be
attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife" was equal to
anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she
should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most
pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little
pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for
her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the
elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the
bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her
success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array
of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and
the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg
resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling,
straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best; she asked
advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she racked her brain to remember what Hannah
did that she had left undone; she reboiled, resugared, and restrained,
but that dreadful stuff wouldn't "_jell_."
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a hand, but
John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any one with their
private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that
last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one; but
they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without
help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the
plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot
summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvy kitchen,
wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,--
"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he
likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please,
and be sure of a welcome from me."
How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear
her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior
wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never
happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to
distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of
tears; there is an inevitability about such things which we can only
wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been
unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to
bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that
a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it
would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of
the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running
out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the
irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the
Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably open; now it was not
only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps. The
parlor-windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife
sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her
hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her
guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared, but a
sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the currant-bushes.
"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I
look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar, and
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he could both see
and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly was
trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was
burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly
eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly
liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat
sobbing dismally.
"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
"O John, I _am_ so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it
till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I _shall_ die!" and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.
"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was
all askew.
"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.
"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than that.
Out with it, love."
"The--the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and the
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which
put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.
"Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more about
it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake don't have
hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and--"
John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled
indignation, reproach, and dismay,--
"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how _could_ you
do such a thing?"
"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't
be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly; for even
turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.
"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for
I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you have
always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if
I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved air.
"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him, and there
isn't any dinner."
"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the
pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.
"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's. I'm sorry,
but I was _so_ busy;" and Meg's tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's work, to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
manner. He restrained himself, however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.
"It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull
through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just exert
yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both as hungry
as hunters, so we sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and
bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."
He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his fate.
Meg thought it was _too_ cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the
last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up to
'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort in my
house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and tell him I'm away, sick,
dead,--anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my
jelly as much as you like: you won't have anything else here;" and
having delivered her defiance all in one breath, Meg cast away her
pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own
room.
What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but Mr.
Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended, after they
had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch
which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten "a
much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the
sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her own
short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing up, she
dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be
forgiven.
Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light. He
had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as
well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend
enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again. But John was
angry, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg had got him into a
scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of need. "It wasn't fair to
tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when
he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in
the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! and Meg
must know it." He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the
flurry was over, and he strolled home, after seeing Scott off, a milder
mood came over him. "Poor little thing! it was hard upon her when she
tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she
was young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone
home--he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled
again at the mere thought of it; and then the fear that Meg would cry
herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace,
resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where
she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show _him_
his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed
and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course, she did nothing
of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally,
as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.
John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but, feeling
that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came
leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the singularly
relevant remark,--
"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."
"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.
A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke,
and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went
to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it,
figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new
rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither
spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both felt desperately
uncomfortable.
[Illustration: Both felt desperately uncomfortable]
"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does need
infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word "mother"
suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and received with
unbelieving protests.
"John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see
and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never
will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is
very accurate, and particular about the truth--a good trait, though you
call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will
give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a
temper, not like ours,--one flash, and then all over,--but the white,
still anger, that is seldom stirred, but once kindled, is hard to
quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake this anger against
yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch
yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against
the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave
the way for bitter sorrow and regret."
These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her own
hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her
own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to
such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in
her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work and got up,
thinking, "I _will_ be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'" but he did not
seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room, for pride was
hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a
minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it; then came the thought,
"This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach
myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the
forehead. Of course that settled it; the penitent kiss was better than a
world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying
tenderly,--
"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me,
dear, I never will again!"
But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both
declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for family
peace was preserved in that little family jar.
After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a happy
fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the
way home.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at
the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend the
day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often
felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing
to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that
Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing
Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because
she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the
coveted trifles; but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn't like
it; and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked
infinitely worse.
She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more,--his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she
liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny,
pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife.
Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little
account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But
that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and tempted her, like
many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn't like to
be pitied and made to feel poor; it irritated her, but she was ashamed
to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying
something pretty, so that Sallie needn't think she had to economize. She
always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom
necessaries; but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying
about; so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping
excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.
But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she cast up
her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather scared her.
John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the next month he
was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg
never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it
weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg
longed for a new one,--just a handsome light one for parties, her black
silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper
for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five
dollars apiece at New Year; that was only a month to wait, and here was
a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she
only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers; but would
he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but
another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the
question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money,
and with the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her
strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering
folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll
take it;" and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.
[Illustration: A bargain, I assure you, ma'am]
When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now, didn't
become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed stamped like
a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it haunted her, not
delightfully, as a new dress should, but dreadfully, like the ghost of a
folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night,
Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was
afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be
stern; and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her
out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid,
the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old
pocket-book which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was
quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously,--
"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."
John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so, and
used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted,
and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the meaning of a
"hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds,
a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and
cost five or six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the
fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her
extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent
wife.
The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him. Meg
got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles out of his
tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing
with every word,--