dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,
you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my New-Year's
money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd done it, for I
knew you'd think it wrong in me."
John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly,
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you _have_ got a pair of killing
boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does
pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."
That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen on it
as he spoke. "Oh, what _will_ he say when he comes to that awful fifty
dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.
"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"
That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at
the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough
without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For a
minute the room was very still; then John said slowly,--but she could
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,--
"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."
"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's when she
gets it on," said John dryly.
"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to waste
your money, and I didn't think those little things would count up so. I
can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me
because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I'm tired of
being poor."
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the
minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away, and got up,
saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid of this; I do
my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him
close, crying, with repentant tears, "O John, my dear, kind,
hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and
ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!"
He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach;
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had
promised to love him for better for worse; and then she, his wife, had
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly.
It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John went on so quietly
afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in
town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to
sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick; and the discovery that
John had countermanded the order for his new great-coat reduced her to a
state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in
answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it,
my dear."
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall, with
her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her heart would
break.
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him
a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings
and failures of those he loved.
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present
of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the great-coat, and,
when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new
silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home
early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was put on in the morning
by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little
wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to Meg a new
experience,--the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.
Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals; for
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
other.
"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell me
before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.
"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin';
we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I'll
send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply Hannah
vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon
a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.
"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.
Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather not. I shall drop
it or smash it, as sure as fate."
"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if to
go.
"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and, obeying
orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his
arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John
caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with
two babies instead of one.
[Illustration: Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put
into his arms]
No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious
innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay that Jo sat down
on the floor and screamed.
"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning to the
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "Take
'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop 'em."
John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you told,
for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've done
it," said Jo, when she got her breath.
"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me up,
Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming upon
the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie bent
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.
"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.
"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!"
commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.
"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and
grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two Megs, and I
suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name," said
Amy, with aunt-like interest.
"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.
"Daisy and Demi,--just the thing! I _knew_ Teddy would do it," cried Jo,
clapping her hands.
Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy" and
"Demi" to the end of the chapter.
XXIX.
CALLS.
[Illustration: Calls]
"Come, Jo, it's time."
"For what?"
"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half
a dozen calls with me to-day?"
"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't
think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a
single one upsets me for a week."
"Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon
of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors' visits."
"If it was fair--that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter of my
bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's _not_ fair,
and I don't go."
"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you
pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do your
duty, and then be at peace for another six months."
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for she was
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking
to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make
calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She hated calls of the
formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain,
bribe, or promise. In the present instance, there was no escape; and
having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she
smelt thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and
gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.
"Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend
to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with
amazement.
"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a dusty
walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for
me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant
as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for me, and
furbelows only worry me."
"Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me
distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no
pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's
no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll
only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can
talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so
beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone;
do come and take care of me."
"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old
sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and
your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most
absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander
of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that satisfy you?" said
Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission.
"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell
you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good
impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try
to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the
pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look too sober in your
plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.
We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can
have my dove-colored one."
While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled
into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet
strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she
put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out
the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the
present mission was to her feelings; and when she had squeezed her hands
into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of
elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance,
saying meekly,--
"I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I die
happy."
"You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a
careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then
fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll
do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet _with_ the rose
is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands
easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do
well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl--I can't; but it's very nice to see you,
and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one; it's simple, but
handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point
of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to
show my boots, for my feet _are_ pretty, though my nose isn't."
"You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through
her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the
gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up,
please, ma'am?"
"Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping style
suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You
haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once. You'll never look
finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make
up the pleasing whole."
Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up
her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as
"pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to
watch them.
"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so
I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt
remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and
quiet,--that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for fifteen
minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed
the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.
"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet,'--yes, I think I can promise that.
I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it
off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in your mind, my
child."
Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for, during
the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold
correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-bank, and as
silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her "charming
novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera,
and the fashions; each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a
demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the
word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with
her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment
like Maud's face, "icily regular, splendidly null."
"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was
the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door
closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall,
but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very
naturally laid the blame upon Jo.
"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and
be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.
They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and
I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."
"I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and
raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll
imitate what is called 'a charming girl;' I can do it, for I have May
Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't
say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'"
Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there
was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw
her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies
with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the
chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession
of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long
account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young
gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and
rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed
possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the old
lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to
hear what was going on; for broken sentences filled her with alarm,
round eyes and uplifted hands tormented her with curiosity, and frequent
peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her
suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:--
"She rides splendidly,--who taught her?"
"No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and sitting
straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she
doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have horses
cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a
passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a
horse-breaker, and get her living so."
At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the
impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which
was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for the old lady was
in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Jo was off
again, making more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful
blunders.
"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone,
and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that
you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for
a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed
the subject.
"None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the
river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try,
because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really
pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took
the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over
the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter
amazement of the old man!"
[Illustration: She took the saddle to the horse]
"Did she ride the horse?"
"Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her
brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the
life of the party."
"Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
girl look so red and uncomfortable.
She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of
the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to
the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was
bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary frankness,
"Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours
any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."
"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.
"That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's
nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for
Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest
shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,"
added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that
exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her
card-case at her.
"We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,"
observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady,
who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.
Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either
grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a _brusque_
remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write
that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you
going to New York this winter?"
As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake;
but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was
for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an
abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their
mouths.
"Amy, we _must_ go. _Good_-by, dear; _do_ come and see us; we are
_pining_ for a visit. I don't dare to ask _you_, Mr. Lamb; but if you
_should_ come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."
Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style
that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong
desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
"Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they walked
away.
"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and
boots, and all the rest of it?"
"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no
use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and
have things as easy and fine as they do."
"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our
poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper
pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,"
said Amy despairingly.
Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the
stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.
"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.
"Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer.
"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance
has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being
disturbed by her failures to suit.
An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children
speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to entertain the
hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted
herself to the young folks, and found the change refreshing. She
listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and
poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick,"
regardless of the improper form of praise; and when one lad proposed a
visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma
to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left
in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bear-like but affectionate, and
dearer to her than the most faultless _coiffure_ from the hands of an
inspired Frenchwoman.