Little Women
“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.