her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who
was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family
with great respect; for, in spite of her American birth and breeding,
she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of
us,--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set
the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a
royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has
something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that
of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she
could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But
even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the
British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time; and when the
proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from
this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping
that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which
should bring disgrace upon the name of March.
[Illustration: It might have been worse]
It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on the
grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog
reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related
one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was
poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating
gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her
gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo collected her
damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come
again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks."
"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after
that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from
any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.
"Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father,
and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast,
and _I_ don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let him
alone."
"You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and
just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,
whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and
the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly.
"No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect, nor
admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece _was_
third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very
clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he _is_ a
gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."
"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.
"Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable, and
drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply
grateful."
The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Jo
uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told
that the young ladies were engaged.
"Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down
there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her the
compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a little
thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt
your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil
them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."
"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from
her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and
spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to
please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much
time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let
the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I fancy."
Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,--
"Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for they
have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd
remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am, because
there is more of you."
"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own
that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person
than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great
misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"
"It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I
don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called upon to
tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself
disagreeable because he is."
"But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men; and
how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any
good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to manage; but there
are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I
say we _ought_ to do it to others if we can."
"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other
boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have
convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were belles,
or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps; but for
us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of
them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle
of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical."
"So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely
because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort
of morality."
"I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world; and
people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one."
"I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for in spite of the
laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree
about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you will
get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should
rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."
"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas."
"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it's my
doom, and I can't help it."
They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a
conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but
Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased
everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was
felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately, looking
what they afterwards said emphatically,--"That child improves every
day."
"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy
sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well
in the young.
"Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a
table, as I have nothing but my time to give."
"I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the
Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly
connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you to
work."
"I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters,
and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.
Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
"Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear; it's a
pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do not, and
that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo,
who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.
[Illustration: The call at Aunt March's]
If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance
for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute; but,
unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what
goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we cannot as a
general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a
saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of
several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of
holding her tongue.
"I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd
rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."
"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.
"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the
air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on
Amy's.
"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often
as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady
to smile affably.
"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.
"Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't bear
French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the _brusque_
reply.
Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You
are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you
any more, do they?"
"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great
things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that
joyful time arrives."
"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball
for her.
"Cross-patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin,"
squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to
peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that
it was impossible to help laughing.
"Most observing bird," said the old lady.
"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the
china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.
"Thank you, I will. Come, Amy;" and Jo brought the visit to an end,
feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon
her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy
kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the
impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression caused Aunt March to
say, as they vanished,--
"You'd better do it, Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to
reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: You shall have another table]
XXX.
CONSEQUENCES.
Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be
invited to take a table, and every one was much interested in the
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life,
and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily.
The "haughty, uninteresting creature" was let severely alone; but Amy's
talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art-table,
and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable
contributions to it.
Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened; then
there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost
impossible to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young,
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.
May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater
favorite than herself, and, just at this time, several trifling
circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen-and-ink
work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases,--that was one thorn; then
the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy, at a late
party, and only once with May,--that was thorn number two; but the chief
grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave her an excuse for her
unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered
to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the
blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had
been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had
permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits,
however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before
the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs.
Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter,
said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look,--
"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about
my giving this table to any one but my girls. As this is the most
prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are
the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take
this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in
the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have
another table if you like."
Mrs. Chester had fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver
this little speech; but when the time came, she found it rather
difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking
straight at her, full of surprise and trouble.
Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what,
and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did,--
"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"
"Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg; it's merely a matter
of expediency, you see; my girls will naturally take the lead, and this
table is considered their proper place. _I_ think it very appropriate
to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty;
but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that
you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower-table? The
little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a
charming thing of it, and the flower-table is always attractive, you
know."
"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy
as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but
took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered, with
unexpected amiability,--
"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at
once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."
"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began
May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty
racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully
made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook
her meaning, and said quickly,--
"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way;" and sweeping her contributions
into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her
works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.
"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, mamma,"
said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.
"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle
ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.
The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to
work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But
everything seemed against her: it was late, and she was tired; every one
was too busy with their own affairs to help her; and the little girls
were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many
magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to
preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm
after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her
head when the hanging baskets were filled; her best tile got a splash of
water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid's cheek; she bruised her
hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draught, which last
affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl-reader
who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy, and
wish her well through with her task.
There was great indignation at home when she told her story that
evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done
right; Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all; and Jo demanded
why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to
get on without her.
"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things,
and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it.
They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't
they, Marmee?"
"That's the right spirit, my dear; a kiss for a blow is always best,
though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with
the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and
practising.
In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate,
Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her
enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came
to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table
that morning, while the little girls were in an ante-room filling the
baskets, she took up her pet production,--a little book, the antique
cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which,
on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As
she turned the pages, rich in dainty devices, with very pardonable
pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed
in a brilliant scroll-work of scarlet, blue, and gold, with little
spirits of good-will helping one another up and down among the thorns
and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright
page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not
hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute,
turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for
all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true
sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street,
school, office, or home; even a fair-table may become a pulpit, if it
can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season.
Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and
there; and she did what many of us do not always do,--took the sermon to
heart, and straightway put it in practice.
A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the pretty
things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their
voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the
story, and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit
had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She
heard May say sorrowfully,--
"It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't
want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then:
now it's spoilt."
"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some one.
"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for
Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly,--
"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was
just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table
rather than mine. Here they are; please take them, and forgive me if I
was hasty in carrying them away last night."
As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and
hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing
than it was to stay and be thanked for it.
"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.
May's answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable
laugh, "Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own
table."
Now, that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have them
appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it,
feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is,--as she
presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and her table to
blossom under her skilful hands; the girls were very kind, and that one
little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.
It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her
table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon: few
cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long
before night.
The art-table _was_ the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd
about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro
with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked
wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy,
instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to
some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious,
but very trying; and the thought of being found there in the evening by
her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a real martyrdom.
She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet
that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no
complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her
an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a charming
little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting
herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were
about to be turned.
"Don't do anything rude, pray, Jo. I won't have any fuss made, so let it
all pass, and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early,
hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little
table.
"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I
know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his
boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet," returned Jo,
leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp
was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.
"Is that my boy?"
"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm,
with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.
"O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I'll be
hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down
before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with
warmth.
"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not
arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't
wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are
very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted tone.
"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."
"I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa was
poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."
"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are
just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?"
began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.
"Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at
all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help Amy, so
you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very kind as to
let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you
forever."
"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the
gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars,
"Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."