Little Women
While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their
canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some
brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt
a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could
not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside
her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but
now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired
and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than
a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn’t
understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her
head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the
arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.
“Que pensez-vous?” she said, airing her French, which had improved in
quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is
charming,” replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an
admiring look.
She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy
her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he
promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was
‘altogether jolly’, with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the
head. She didn’t like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded
indifferent in spite of the look.
“If that’s the way he’s going to grow up, I wish he’d stay a boy,” she
thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying
meantime to seem quite easy and gay.
At Avigdor’s she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins
to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road
between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June.
“Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home,
but they all say ‘stay’. So I do, for I shall never have another chance
like this,” said Amy, looking sober over one page.
“I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is
a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and
enjoying so much, my dear.”
He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said
that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy’s heart was lightened,
for the look, the act, the brotherly ‘my dear’, seemed to assure her
that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her
scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing
from her mouth the words, ‘Genius burns!’.
Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket ‘to keep it from
blowing away’, and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read
him.
“This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the
morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,” said
Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of
splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.
While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs
to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him,
with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had
wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and
approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and
manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of
that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call
elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in
both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of
the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed
itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness
was unspoiled by foreign polish.
Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,
but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a
pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,
which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her
cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure
in the pleasant scene.
As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved
her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing
here and there, “Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the
fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa
Franca, Schubert’s Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far
out to sea which they say is Corsica?”
“I remember. It’s not much changed,” he answered without enthusiasm.
“What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!” said Amy,
feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.
“Yes,” was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the
island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting
in his sight.
“Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what
you have been doing with yourself all this while,” said Amy, seating
herself, ready for a good talk.
But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her
questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the
Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove
home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left
them, promising to return in the evening.
It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night.
Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had
seen her old friend in a new light, not as ‘our boy’, but as a handsome
and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to
find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of
them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty
woman.
Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them
on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple
dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh
flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were
both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist
sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique
coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear
heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon
such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep
our hearts merry with their artless vanities.
“I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,” said
Amy to herself, as she put on Flo’s old white silk ball dress, and
covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white
shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair
she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and
curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.
“It’s not the fashion, but it’s becoming, and I can’t afford to make a
fright of myself,” she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or
braid, as the latest style commanded.
Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped
her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white
shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she
surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and
chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.
“My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the
real lace on Aunt’s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only
had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,” she said,
surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.
In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as
she glided away. She seldom ran—it did not suit her style, she thought,
for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the
sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while
waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier,
which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it,
and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the
girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened
that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so
quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window,
with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the
slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a
well-placed statue.
“Good evening, Diana!” said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she
liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.
“Good evening, Apollo!” she answered, smiling back at him, for he too
looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on
the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain
Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.
“Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you
didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay’,” said Laurie, handing her
a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily
passed it in Cardiglia’s window.
“How kind you are!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If I’d known you were
coming I’d have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty
as this, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you. It isn’t what it should be, but you have improved it,” he
added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.
“Please don’t.”
“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”
“Not from you, it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness
better.”
“I’m glad of it,” he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her
gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to
do when they went to parties together at home.
The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was
such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans
had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no
prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their
Christmas ball.
A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk
with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother in black velvet with
a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted
himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, ‘a fascinating dear’, and a
German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely
about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild’s private
secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the
world, as if his master’s name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing,
and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little
family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced
American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few
plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of
traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas
of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they
danced with their daughters.
Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she ‘took the
stage’ that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well,
she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a
ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when
young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to
rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis
girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim