Little_Women2.txt

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it
would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then
it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What
shall I do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
cried even harder.

“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt
anyone and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some
day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help
me, do help me!”

“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this
day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another
like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than
yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think
your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like
it.”

“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.

“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded
in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I
have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,
though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a
better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She
felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,
though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a
girl of fifteen.

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go
out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?”
asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and
when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away
for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and
wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed
and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the
sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say
the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me…”

“As you do us…” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years
had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we
were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by
nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”

“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”

“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,
but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed
to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me
that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little
girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your
sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you
when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,
and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest
reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them
copy.”

“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”
cried Jo, much touched.

“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch
over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not
spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with
heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you
greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.”

“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me,
and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his
finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face,
and you always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding
you then?” asked Jo softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me
from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”

Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she
spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,
“Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be
rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so
safe and happy here.”

“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how
much I love them.”

“I thought I’d grieved you.”

“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his
little daughters safe and good for him.”

“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never
complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering.

“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty
and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to
need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to
comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your
life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive
them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your
Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love
and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will
depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or
change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of
lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go
to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as
freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.”

Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which
followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart
without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not
only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of
self-denial and self-control, and led by her mother’s hand, she had
drawn nearer to the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love
stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once
to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it
had never worn before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and today,
if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I
be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister
softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a
smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they
hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was
forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

CHAPTER NINE

MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

“I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those
children should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as
she stood packing the ‘go abroady’ trunk in her room, surrounded by her
sisters.

“And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like
a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.

“And such lovely weather, I’m so glad of that,” added Beth, tidily
sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great
occasion.

“I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice
things,” said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically
replenished her sister’s cushion.

“I wish you were all going, but as you can’t, I shall keep my
adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can
do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get
ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit,
which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

“What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?” asked Amy, who had
not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when
the proper time came.

“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue
sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over,
so I must be contented with my old tarlaton.”

“It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it
off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you
might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose
possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but
Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl,
and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me
see, there’s my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my
hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks
heavy for spring, doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh,
dear!”

“Never mind, you’ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little store
of finery in which her soul delighted.

“It isn’t low-necked, and it doesn’t sweep enough, but it will have to
do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that
I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the
fashion, and my bonnet doesn’t look like Sallie’s. I didn’t like to
say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told
Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one
with a yellowish handle. It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to
complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one
with a gold top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great
disfavor.

“Change it,” advised Jo.

“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I’m not
going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves
are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich
and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up
for common.” And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.

“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put
some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah’s hands.

“No, I wouldn’t, for the smart caps won’t match the plain gowns without
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said Jo decidedly.

“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my
clothes and bows on my caps?” said Meg impatiently.

“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth in her quiet way.

“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as if
the more one gets the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays
are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for
Mother to pack,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the
half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton,
which she called her ‘ball dress’ with an important air.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented
than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take
good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a
winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went
to take her first taste of fashionable life.

The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its
occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life
they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt,
without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated
or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite
conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly
was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her
best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her
exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of
those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,
crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as
well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things,
the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare
and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she
felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of
the new gloves and silk stockings.

She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in ‘having a good time’. They shopped, walked,
rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at
home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to
entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one
was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought.
Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and
Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as
her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and ‘Daisey’, as they
called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.

When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin
wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses
and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan,
looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie’s crisp new
one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her
cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.
No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and
Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white
arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her
heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others
laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard,
bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box
of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all
were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.

“It’s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.

“They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,” put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.

“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,” cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

“Oh, indeed!” said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note
into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false
pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers
cheered her up by their beauty.

Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for
herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the
breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that
Clara, the elder sister, told her she was ‘the sweetest little thing
she ever saw’, and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest
went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed
face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and
fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike her as so very
shabby now.

She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her
heart’s content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three
compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a
remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who ‘the fresh little girl
with the beautiful eyes’ was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with
her because she ‘didn’t dawdle, but had some spring in her’, as he
gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till
she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her extremely.
She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner
to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of
the flowery wall…

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.

“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? Sallie
says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.”

“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs.
Moffat.

“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if
she was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we
offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.

“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlaton
is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good
excuse for offering a decent one.”

Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and
rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then,
for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what
she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she
could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to
forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has
made her plans,” “that fib about her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlaton,” till
she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for
advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and
being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an
effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she
was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till
her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears.
Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and
much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived
as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled
by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a
little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat,
who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be
contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter
was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby
dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.

Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not
speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled
that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even
to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends
struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought,
took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with
eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered
her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from
her writing, and said, with a sentimental air…

“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper
compliment to you.”

Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”

“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.

“He’s too old.”

“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!” cried
Miss Clara.

“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to hide
the merriment in her eyes.

“You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.

“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also
at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her
supposed lover.

“About your age,” Nan said.

“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned Meg,
tossing her head.

“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie,
looking wise about nothing.

“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are
so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know,
so it is quite natural that we children should play together,” and Meg
hoped they would say no more.

“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.

“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss Belle
with a shrug.

“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do
anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like
an elephant in silk and lace.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got my new pink silk for
Thursday and don’t want a thing.”

“Nor I…” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she
did want several things and could not have them.

“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.

“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly
torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling
very uncomfortable.

“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.

“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but
Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that?
How funny…” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head
at her and broke in, saying kindly…

“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she
isn’t out yet? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had
a dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown,
and you shall wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”

“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you don’t, it does
well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.

“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to
do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and
there. I shan’t let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll
burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,”
said Belle in her persuasive tone.

Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if
she would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept
and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.

On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and
between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled. They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly
breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in
the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace,
brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink
silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and
a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders,
and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her
heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder
holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the
satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her
fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that
she was ‘a little beauty’. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase
enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in
the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like
a party of magpies.

“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt
and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver
butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head,
Clara, and don’t any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,”
said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re quite French, I
assure you. Let your flowers hang, don’t be so careful of them, and be
sure you don’t trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was
prettier than herself.

Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs
and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early
guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm
about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures
their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her
before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young
gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only
stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but
agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas,
and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air
of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them…

“Daisy March–father a colonel in the army–one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences;
sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”

“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another
observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been
rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat’s fibs. The ‘queer feeling’ did not pass
away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so
got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the
train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest
her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting
her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried
to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused,
for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with
undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he
bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and
wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle
nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to
see, looked unusually boyish and shy.

“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care for
it, or let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the
room to shake hands with her friend.

“I’m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” she said, with her most
grown-up air.

“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,” answered
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
maternal tone.

“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.

“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove
button.

“How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like
it. Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him say
whether he thought her improved or not.

“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie gravely.

“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.

“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.

“Why not?” in an anxious tone.

He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically
trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer,
which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.

“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”

That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”

Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool
her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant
color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after
she heard him saying to his mother…

“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her,
but they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg. “I wish I’d been sensible and worn my own
things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.”

She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some
one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he
said, with his very best bow and his hand out…

“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”

“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying to
look offended and failing entirely.

“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like
your gown, but I do think you are just splendid.” And he waved his
hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch
the time, “Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of
my life and I was a goose to wear it.”

“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie,
looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home,
they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant
sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more
friendly than ever after their small tiff.

“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he stood
fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
would not own why.

“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.

“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t
understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”

“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg
hastily added…

“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly
I’ve been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”

“I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask me?”

“Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.”

“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You
don’t look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie
looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper…

“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little
fun, but this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”

“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his
black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a
pleasant addition to the party.

“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for
them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused
Laurie immensely.

He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving ‘like a
pair of fools’, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort
of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a
defender was needed.

“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.
I wouldn’t, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered,
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher
stooped to pick up her fan.

“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things.
Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers’ and be desperately
good again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.

“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off,
ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.
After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly
upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that
scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got
no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say
good night.

“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
already begun.

“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as
he went away.

This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too
tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a
masquerade and hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was
sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with
her fortnight’s fun and feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’
long enough.

“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg,
looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother
and Jo on the Sunday evening.

“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem
dull and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who
had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick
to see any change in children’s faces.

Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a
charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her
spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat
thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried.
As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her
chair and, taking Beth’s stool, leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee,
saying bravely…

“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”

“I thought so. What is it, dear?”

“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.

“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”

“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little
anxious.

“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they
powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a
fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though
he didn’t say so, and one man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly,
but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of
nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”

“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast
face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to
blame her little follies.

“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was
altogether abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.

“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly…

“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have
people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”

Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’,
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill
pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.

“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo
indignantly. “Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”

“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at
first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I
ought to go away.”

“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle
such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to
Laurie because he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout
when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?”
And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good
joke.

“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she,
Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.

“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you
can,” said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among
people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly,
ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more
sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you,
Meg.”

“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and
remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you
very much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied,
Mother. I know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till
I’m fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and
admired, and I can’t help saying I like it,” said Meg, looking half
ashamed of the confession.

“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite
the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty,
Meg.”

Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new
thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and
things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her
sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a
world where she could not follow.

“Mother, do you have ‘plans’, as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg bashfully.

“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them,
for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and
heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg,
but not too young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest
to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in
time, perhaps, so listen to my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if
they are good.”

Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each,
and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her
serious yet cheery way…

“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care
and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen
by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a
woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful
experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait
for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes,
you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear
girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the
world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid
houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a
needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I
never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.
I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved,
contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward,” sighed Meg.

“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.

“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March
decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere
lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls,
but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave
these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for
homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they
are not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be
your confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust
that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and
comfort of our lives.”

“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she
bade them good night.

CHAPTER TEN

THE P.C. AND P.O.

As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the
lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.
The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the
little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know
which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny,” and so
she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters.
Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying
experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the
seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt
Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant
flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks,
pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for
the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but
very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging
their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall
white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants
as would consent to blossom there.

Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine
days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some
new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as
secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one,
and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the
Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a
year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which
occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged
in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges,
with a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper
called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something,
while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven
o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges
round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as
the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus
Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy,
who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle.
Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original
tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which
they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short
comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles
without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared
hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he
arranged himself properly, began to read:

_________________________________________________"THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO"MAY 20, 18--POET'S CORNERANNIVERSARY ODEAgain we meet to celebrate
With badge and solemn rite,
Our fifty-second anniversary,
In Pickwick Hall, tonight.We all are here in perfect health,
None gone from our small band:
Again we see each well-known face,
And press each friendly hand.Our Pickwick, always at his post,
With reverence we greet,
As, spectacles on nose, he reads
Our well-filled weekly sheet.Although he suffers from a cold,
We joy to hear him speak,
For words of wisdom from him fall,
In spite of croak or squeak.Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high,
With elephantine grace,
And beams upon the company,
With brown and jovial face.Poetic fire lights up his eye,
He struggles 'gainst his lot.
Behold ambition on his brow,
And on his nose, a blot.Next our peaceful Tupman comes,
So rosy, plump, and sweet,
Who chokes with laughter at the puns,
And tumbles off his seat.Prim little Winkle too is here,
With every hair in place,
A model of propriety,
Though he hates to wash his face.The year is gone, we still unite
To joke and laugh and read,
And tread the path of literature
That doth to glory lead.Long may our paper prosper well,
Our club unbroken be,
And coming years their blessings pour
On the useful, gay 'P.  C.'.
A.  SNODGRASS________THE MASKED MARRIAGE
(A Tale Of Venice)Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble
steps, and left its lovely load to swell the
brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count
Adelon.  Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks
and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so
with mirth and music the masquerade went on.
"Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?"
asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who
floated down the hall upon his arm."Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad!  Her
dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds
Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.""By my faith, I envy him.  Yonder he comes,
arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask.
When that is off we shall see how he regards the
fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her
stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour."Tis whispered that she loves the young English
artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the
old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance.
The revel was at its height when a priest
appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,
hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel.
Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a
sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of
orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the
hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:"My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which
I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of
my daughter.  Father, we wait your services."
All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a
murmur of amazement went through the throng, for
neither bride nor groom removed their masks.  Curiosity
and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained
all tongues till the holy rite was over.  Then the
eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding
an explanation."Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only
know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I
yielded to it.  Now, my children, let the play end.
Unmask and receive my blessing."But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom
replied in a tone that startled all listeners
as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand
Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the
breast where now flashed the star of an English earl
was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty."My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your
daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a
fortune as the Count Antonio.  I can do more, for even
your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux
and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless
wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady,
now my wife."The count stood like one changed to stone, and
turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with
a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I
can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has
done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have
by this masked marriage."
S.  PICKWICKWhy is the P.  C.  like the Tower of Babel?
It is full of unruly members._________THE HISTORY OF A SQUASHOnce upon a time a farmer planted a little seed
in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became
a vine and bore many squashes.  One day in October,
when they were ripe, he picked one and took it
to market.  A grocerman bought and put it in his shop.
That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat
and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went
and bought it for her mother.  She lugged it home, cut
it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it
with salt and butter, for dinner.  And to the rest she added
a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg,
and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it
till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten
by a family named March.
T.  TUPMAN

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