CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding
with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip
about the Marches. And here let me premise that if any of the
elders think there is too much ‘lovering' in the story, as I fear
they may (I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection),
I can only say with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have
four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the
way?"
The three years that have passed have brought but few changes
to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at
home, busy with his books and the small parish which found in him
a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in
the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls
all mankind ‘brother', the piety that blossoms into character,
making it august and lovely.
These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity
which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to
him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees,
and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of
hard experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men
found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they, thoughtful
or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure
of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told
their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and
saved. Gifted men found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught
glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings
confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although ‘they
wouldn't pay'.
To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house,
and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among
his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,
anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always
turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those
sacred words, husband and father.
The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their
souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored
so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth
and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses
life and outlives death.
Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than
when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that
the hospitals and homes still full of wounded ‘boys' and soldiers'
widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.
John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was
sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars,
but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life
and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly
resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well,
preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good
sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused
Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of
bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned
salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.
Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing
womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than
ever, for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions
and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which
the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner,
and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage,
many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing
she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon
vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had
put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in
the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew
so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt
herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom.
Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such
a fancy to AMy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons
from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this
advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her
mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained
delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an
invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had
been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet
duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long
before those who loved her most had learned to know it.
As long as THE SPREAD EAGLE paid her a dollar a column for her
‘rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and
spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in
her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the
garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which
was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame.
Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather,
was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner
to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners,
much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into
scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in
great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like
many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman
against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in
his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were
her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that
four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all
their hearts.
Being only ‘a glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and
flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as
college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and
more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But
as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks,
he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable
atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed
in perfection. In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow
escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his
triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished
enemies. The ‘men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of the girls,
who never wearied of the exploits of ‘our fellows', and were frequently
allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie
brought them home with him.
Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle
among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift
of fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed
in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder
how Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own
element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the
gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural
to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked
Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped
without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine.
And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the ‘Dovecote'.
That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared
for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who ‘went on together like a
pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'. It was a
tiny house, with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a
pocket handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present
the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a
dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches,
undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was
merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted.
But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no
fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it
was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been
got in whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a
tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express
purpose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the
coalbin. But once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing
could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided
over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There
were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the
little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture
or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all
about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the
fairer for the loving messages they brought.
I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its
beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any
upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more
gracefully than Amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever
better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes
than that in which Jo and her mother put away Meg's few boxes,
barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new
kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not
arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire
all ready for lighting the minute ‘Mis. Brooke came home'. I also
doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of
dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to last till
the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds
of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.
People who hire all these things done for them never know
what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving
hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything
in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on
her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought.
What happy times they had planning together, what solemn
shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what
shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In
his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through
college, was a much of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to
bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious
article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable
clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the
first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a
sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt,
labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible
cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the
deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for
odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its
own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.
In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called
him ‘Mr. Toodles'. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing
Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth.
So each week beheld some fresh absurdity.
Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different
colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's
setting the table for the first meal.
"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel
as if you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her
daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then
they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever.
"Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so
happy that I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better
than words.
"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy,
coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether
the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.
"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my
mind to try her way first. There will be so little to do that with
Lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only
have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered
Meg tranquilly.
"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.
"If Meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and
missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped
in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.
"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping
with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have
a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little
house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like
Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and
gossip. When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes
to wear out or get torn, so that i might have the pleasure of mending
them, for I got heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my
pocket handkerchief."
"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie
says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and
the servants laugh at her," said Meg.
"I did after a while, not to ‘mess' but to learn of Hannah how
things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It
was play then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that
I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food
for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford
to hire help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons
you learn now will be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer
man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how
work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served."
"Yes, Mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully
to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth
upon the all absorbing subject of house keeping. "Do you know I
like this room most of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute
after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored
linen closet.
Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves
and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke,
for that linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg
married ‘that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt
March was rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and
made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much
exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a
plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's
mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply
of house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which
was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was greatly
enjoyed by the family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly
unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the
old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride.
"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a
young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had
finger bowls for company and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March,
patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation
of their fineness.
"I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will
last me all my days, Hannah says." And Meg looked quite contented,
as well she might.
A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a
felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the
road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to
open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and
a hearty...
"Here I am, Mother! Yes, it's all right."
The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave
him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so
frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly
kiss.
"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you
are, Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a
single lady."
As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg,
pilled Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's bib pinafore, and fell
into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all
round, and everyone began to talk.
"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.
"Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."
"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted
in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."
"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile.
"More cruel than ever. Don't you see how I'm pining away?"
And Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a
melodramatic sigh.
"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said
Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.
"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire
or thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared,
amid the laughter of the girls.
"Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs.
Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse
the neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" And Laurie
gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.
"There's gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds
me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake
from destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and
if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it
looked like a remarkably plummy one."
"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a
matronly tone.
"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid,
as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,"
responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the
little chandelier.
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this
spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry,
I propose an adjournment," he added presently.
"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last
things to settle," said Meg, bustling away.
"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers
for tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion
I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron,
whatever you do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo
bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered
her arm to support his feeble steps.
"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,"
began Jo, as they strolled away together. "You must promise to
behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
"Not a prank."
"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
"I never do. You are the one for that."
"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I
shall certainly laugh if you do."
"You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog
round you will obscure the prospect."
"I never cry unless for some great affliction."
"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with
suggestive laugh.
"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company."
"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?"
"Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how
he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.
"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say
‘All right', if it wasn't?" And Laurie stopped short, with an injured
air.
"No, I don't."
"Then don't go and be suspicious. I only want some money," said
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
"You spend a great deal, Teddy."
"Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is
gone before I know it."
"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow,
and can't say ‘No' to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did
for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame
you," said Jo warmly.
"Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn't have me
let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little
help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"
"Of course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home.
I thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it
breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,
to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket,
orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap
ugliness, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I
don't get any satisfaction out of it."
Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this
attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which
insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the
advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the
maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough
all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home.
I'll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a
satisfaction to my friends."
"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow.
I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person
who looks like a young prize fighter," observed Jo severely.
"This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it,"
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having
voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for
quarterinch-long stubble.
"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting
desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and
moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little
passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential,
elder brotherly tone, after a minute's silence.
"Of course he had. We don't want any more marrying in this
family for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children
thinking of?" And Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little
Parker were not yet in their teens.
"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am.
You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
times.
"Don't be alarmed. I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody
will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old
maid in a family."
"You won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong
glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face.
"You won't show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow
gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes
it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold
water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."
"I don't like that sort of thing. I'm too busy to be worried
with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so.
Now don't say any more about it. Meg's wedding has turned all our
heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I
don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject." And Jo
looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.
Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for
them in a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted
at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."