CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters
hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to
look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a
fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a
big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and
Hannah popping in her head now and then ‘to peek at the dear
man', nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But
something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none
confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another
with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo
had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at
Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg
was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang,
and colored when John's name was mentioned. Amy said,
"Everyone seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down,
which was queer, since Father was safe at home," and Beth innocently
wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window,
seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell
down on one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair,
and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon.
And when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung
imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the
corner as if in utter despair.
"What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to
look unconscious.
"He's showing you how your John will go on by-and-by.
Touchin, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully.
"Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice
lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please
don't plague me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and
there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and
go on as before."
"We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief
has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not
like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I
don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish
it was all settled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it,
make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly.
"I can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because
Father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work
with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite
agree with her father on that point.
"If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would
cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a
good, decided no."
"I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what
I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken
unawares. There's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to
be prepared."
Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had
unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty
color varying in her cheeks.
"Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more
respectfully.
"Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be
my confidente, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by,
perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort."
"Don't mean to have any. It's fun to watch other people
philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said
Jo, looking alarmed at the thought.
"I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked
you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane
where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer
twilight.
"I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,"
said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
"Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, ‘Thank
you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that
I am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please
say no more, but let us be friends as we were."
"Hum, that's stiff and cool enough! I don't believe you'll
ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he
goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather
than hurt his feelings."
"No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and
shall walk out of the room with dignity."
Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the
dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her
seat and begin to sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing
that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh
at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap, opened
the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable.
"Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see
how your father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a
trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.
"It's very well, he's in the rack. I'll get him, and tell it
you are here." And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well
together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a
chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she
vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring...
"Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her."
"Don't go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" And Mr. Brooke
looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very
rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he
had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to
find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious
to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a
confiding gesture, and said gratefully...
"How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father?
I only wish I could thank you for it."
"Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small
hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much
love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she
both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
"Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to
withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
"I won't trouble you. I only want to know if you care for
me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke
tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg
didn't make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and
answered, "I don't know," so softly that John had to stoop down
to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled
to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand
gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and
find out? I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with
any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end
or not."
"I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering was she was so
fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
"I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to
like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"
"Not if I chose to learn it, but..."
"Please choose to learn, Meg. I love you to teach, and this
is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the
other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent
to look into it.
His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look
at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and
that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his
success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in
coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps
in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a
sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and
strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a
capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly,
"I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!"
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air
was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such
a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
"Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following
her as she walked away.
"Yes, I do. I don't want to be worried about such things.
Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not."
"Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll
wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play
with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you."
"Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said
Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience
and her own power.
He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like
the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his
forehead nor tramped about the room as they did. He just stood
looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her
heart relenting in spite of herself. What would have happened
next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at
this interesting minute.
The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew,
for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of
Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family
were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made
her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise
two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a
ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
"Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap
of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the
scarlet young lady.
"It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg,
feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
"That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But
what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony?
There's mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it
is," with another rap.
"We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,"
began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely
out of the house.
"Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know
all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your
Father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and
accepted him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
"Hush! He'll hear. Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much
troubled.
"Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my
mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you
do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that,
and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing
the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed
doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us,
especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had
begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have
declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was preemptorily
ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that
she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision
easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady
with unusual spirit.
"I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can
leave your money to anyone you like," she said, nodding her
head with a resolute air.
"Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss?
You'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a
cottage and found it a failure."
"It can't be a worse one than some people find in big
houses," retorted Meg.
Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl,
for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew
herself, she felt so brave and independent, so glad to defend
John and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March
saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made a
fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear,
be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't
want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the
beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It's
your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed
upon you."
"Father and Mother don't think so. They like John though
he is poor."
"Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a
pair of babies."
"I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture.
"This Rook is poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
"No, but he has many warm friends."
"You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll
grow. He hasn't any business, has he?"
"Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him."
"That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old
fellow and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man
without money, position, or business, and go on working harder
than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days
by minding me and doing better? I thought you had more sense,
Meg."
"I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is
good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work
and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave. Everyone likes
and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though
I'm so poor and young and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than
ever in her earnestness.
"He knows you have got rich relations, child. That's the
secret of his liking, I suspect."
"Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above
such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so,"
cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of
the old lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any
more than I would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I'm
not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I
shall be with him because he loves me, and I..."
Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't
made up her mind, that she had told ‘her John' to go away, and that
he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having
her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's
happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
"Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful
child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
No, I won't stop. I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to
see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are
married. Your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I'm done
with you forever."
And slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in
high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her,
for when left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to
laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken
possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said all in one breath, "I couldn't
help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for
proving that you do care for me a little bit."
"I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg.
"And I needn't go away, but my stay and be happy, may I, dear?"
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech
and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either,
and disgraced herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering,
"Yes, John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly
downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no
sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying
to herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair
is settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."
But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon
the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with
her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over
a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the
banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock
to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the
strongminded sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of
the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold
shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected
turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd
sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both
proud and shy, but ‘that man', as Jo called him, actually laughed
and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo,
congratulate us!"
That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much,
and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished
without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by
exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody
go down quick! John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!"
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself
upon the be, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful
news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a
most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from
them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her
troubles to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but
a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his
friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit,
told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he
wanted it.
The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise
which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper,
both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal.
Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth
beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the
young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly
evident Aunt March was right in calling them as ‘unworldly as a pair
of babies'. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the
old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of
the family began there.
"You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?"
said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch
she was planning to make.
"No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that!
It seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream
lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.
"The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather
think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families
there comes, now and then, a year full of events. This has been such
a one, but it ends well, after all."
"Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very
hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved
a few persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost
or lessened in any way.
"I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it
shall, if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at
Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now.
"Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a
hurry for the wedding.
"I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems
a short time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face
never seen there before.
"You have only to wait, I am to do the work," said John beginning
his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which
caused Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air
of relief as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we
shall have some sensible conversation."
But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing
with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for ‘Mrs.
John Brooke', and evidently laboring under the delusion that the
whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
"I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does,
for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done
though the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his
offering and his congratulations.
"Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good
omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot,"
answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his
mischievous pupil.
"I'll come if I'm at the ens of the earth, for the sight of
Jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey.
You don't look festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie,
following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned
to greet Mr. Laurence.
"I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear
it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You
can't know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued
with a little quiver in her voice.
"You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie
consolingly.
"It can never be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend,"
sighed Jo.
"You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know, but
I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!"
And Laurie meant what he said.
"I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged. You are always
a great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
"Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all
right you see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled
immediately, Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly
to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after
she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then
we'll go abroad on some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?"
"I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen
in three years," said Jo thoughtfully.
"That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward and
wee where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie.
"I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks
so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's
eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the
prospect was a pleasant one.
Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago.
Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of
their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the
little artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily
with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it
possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked.
Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which
best became her, and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his
chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest
aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them both.
So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it
ever rises again, depends upon the reception giveN the first act of
the domestic drama called LITTLE WOMEN.