Little Women
“Don’t go and hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of killing
boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she does
pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.”
That had been one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye had fallen on
it as he spoke. “Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty
dollars!” thought Meg, with a shiver.
“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
“Well, dear, what is the ‘dem’d total’, as Mr. Mantalini says?”
That didn’t sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with
the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and
answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at
the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough
without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For
a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly—but she could
feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure—. . .
“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.”
“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman,
but I’ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat’s when she
gets it on,” said John dryly.
“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t help it. I don’t mean to waste
your money, and I didn’t think those little things would count up so. I
can’t resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying
me because I don’t. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m
tired of being poor.”
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but
he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many
pleasures for Meg’s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the
minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up,
saying with a little quiver in his voice, “I was afraid of this. I do
my best, Meg.” If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not
have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him
close, crying, with repentant tears, “Oh, John, my dear, kind,
hard-working boy. I didn’t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and
ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!”
He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach,
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be
forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had
promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had
reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings
recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so
quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he
stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry
herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the
discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat
reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had
simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, “I
can’t afford it, my dear.”
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with
her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would
break.
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him
a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings
and failures of those he loved.
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present
of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and
when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new
silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his
present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home
early, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning
by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted
little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to
Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman’s life.
Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for
Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the
other.
“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me
before I came home?” began Laurie in a loud whisper.
“Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of ’em is upstairs a
worshipin’. We didn’t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the
parlor, and I’ll send ’em down to you,” with which somewhat involved
reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon
a large pillow. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and
there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.
“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly.
Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him
with an imploring gesture. “No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop
it or smash it, as sure as fate.”
“Then you shan’t see your nevvy,” said Jo decidedly, turning as if to
go.
“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.” and obeying
orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into
his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John
caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with
two babies instead of one.
No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough
to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the
unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that
Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said for a minute, then turning to the
women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added,
“Take ’em quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop ’em.”
Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm,
as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie
laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have told you,
for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I’ve done
it,” said Jo, when she got her breath.
“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look. Hold me up,
Jo, for upon my life it’s one too many for me,” returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa, beaming upon
the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?” and Laurie bent
like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy,” said wicked Jo.
“I’m afraid they mightn’t like it,” began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.
“Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!”
commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.
“There, I knew they didn’t like it! That’s the boy, see him kick, he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?” cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
“He’s to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother
and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs,
and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,”
said Amy, with aunt-like interest.
“Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie.
“Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,” cried Jo
clapping her hands.
Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were ‘Daisy’ and
‘Demi’ to the end of the chapter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CALLS
“Come, Jo, it’s time.”
“For what?”
“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make
half a dozen calls with me today?”
“I’ve done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don’t
think I ever was mad enough to say I’d make six calls in one day, when
a single one upsets me for a week.”
“Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon
of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors’ visits.”
“If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my
bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it’s not fair,
and I don’t go.”
“Now, that’s shirking. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you
pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your
duty, and then be at peace for another six months.”
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking
to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make
calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the
formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain,
bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and
having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she
smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat
and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.
“Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don’t intend
to make calls in that state, I hope,” cried Amy, surveying her with
amazement.
“Why not? I’m neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty
walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for
me, I don’t wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant
as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn’t for me, and
furbelows only worry me.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Amy, “now she’s in a contrary fit, and will drive me
distracted before I can get her properly ready. I’m sure it’s no
pleasure to me to go today, but it’s a debt we owe society, and there’s
no one to pay it but you and me. I’ll do anything for you, Jo, if
you’ll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil.
You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and
behave so beautifully, if you try, that I’m proud of you. I’m afraid to
go alone, do come and take care of me.”
“You’re an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old
sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred,
and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don’t know which is the
most absurd. Well, I’ll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be
commander of the expedition, and I’ll obey blindly, will that satisfy
you?” said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike
submission.
“You’re a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I’ll