Little Women
papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her
friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it
permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who
her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the
band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap
the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know
it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than
described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, “Do you care to
dance?”
“One usually does at a ball.”
Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as
fast as possible.
“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”
“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he
will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the
name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be
trifled with.
“Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support...
A daughter of the gods,
Devinely tall, and most divinely fair,”
was all the satisfaction she got, however.
The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy
was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the
while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned
her to the ‘nice little boy’, and went to do his duty to Flo, without
securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of
forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself
till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She
showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled
instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka
redowa. But his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and when she
galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with
an actual expression of relief.
That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long
while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between
the dances for a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good
effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed
unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie’s eyes followed her with
pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit
and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very
naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before
the evening was half over, had decided that ‘little Amy was going to
make a very charming woman’.
It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took
possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,
hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and
banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who
couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark
with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.
The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a
dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.
The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily
through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he
committed. But the Emperor’s friend covered himself with glory, for he
danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu
pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that
stout man was charming to behold, for though he ‘carried weight’, he
danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face
glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps
actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the
drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French
Pickwick without glasses.
Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more
graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time
to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as
indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished
her, with assurances that he was ‘desolated to leave so early’, she was
ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his
punishment.
It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections
find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young
blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the
enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up
look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring
her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “Ah, I
thought that would do him good!”
“You look like Balzac’s ‘_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_’,” he said, as he
fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.
“My rouge won’t come off.” and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and
showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh
outright.
“What do you call this stuff?” he asked, touching a fold of her dress
that had blown over his knee.
“Illusion.”
“Good name for it. It’s very pretty—new thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you
never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!”
“I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you
see.”
“None of that, it is forbidden. I’d rather take coffee than compliments
just now. No, don’t lounge, it makes me nervous.”
Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd
sort of pleasure in having ‘little Amy’ order him about, for she had
lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,
as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any
signs of subjection.
“Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked with a quizzical
look.
“As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would you kindly
explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but
wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
“Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession,
the—the—illusion—you know”, laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping
himself out of his quandary with the new word.
Amy was gratified, but of course didn’t show it, and demurely answered,
“Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self. I study as well as
play, and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her dress—“why,
tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making
the most of my poor little things.”
Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good
taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both
admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of
opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.
Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up
her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of
the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought
this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions
which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ON THE SHELF
In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married,
when ‘Vive la liberte!’ becomes their motto. In America, as everyone
knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy
their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually
abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion
almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet.
Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as
soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim,
as did a very pretty woman the other day, “I’m as handsome as ever, but
no one takes any notice of me because I’m married.”
Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience
this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little
world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired
and beloved than ever.
As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very
strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter
exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded
over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the
tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the
kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the
wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored
his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time,
supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.
But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked
worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the
house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life ‘aisy’, kept
him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered
by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at
night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a “Hush! They
are just asleep after worrying all day.” If he proposed a little
amusement at home, “No, it would disturb the babies.” If he hinted at a
lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a
decided—“Leave my children for pleasure, never!” His sleep was broken
by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to
and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the
frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped,
if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his
paper of an evening, Demi’s colic got into the shipping list and
Daisy’s fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only
interested in domestic news.
The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of
his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual ‘hushing’ made
him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred
precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and
when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles
do—tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone
to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over
for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and
his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott
was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she
performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright
and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay
gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so
lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and
enjoyed his neighbor’s society.
Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a
relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in
the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But
by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep
at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John,
and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite
in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the
fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because
he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely
forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was
nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable
frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when