Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (23 page)

“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we’d get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well, though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable; so I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when everyone thinks only of herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?”

“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls.

“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone; it keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion.”

“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don‘t!” said Jo. “I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner party I have shall be a success.”

“I’ll make the set of shirts for Father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing; that will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are,” said Meg.

“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,” was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts of speech.”

“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty.”

“We’ll remember, Mother!” And they did.

12

Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the penny post.

“Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in “Marmee’s corner” and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.

“Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.

“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the garden?”

“No, I’m sure I didn‘t, for there was only one in the office.”

“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.”

Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied.

“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post office, stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing as she went into the study where Jo sat writing.

“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why mind the fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I would if I had one, and he has sent me this to try me. I’ll wear it for fun, and show him I
don’t
care for the fashion.” And hanging the antique broadbrim on a bust of Plato,
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Jo read her letters.

One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said to her—

“That does me good! That’s worth millions of money and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I have you to help me.”

Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy tears, for she
had
thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote—

“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg.

“Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some way.

“I hope the Vaughns are not fine, grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?” asked Meg.

“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys; I fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire Kate much.”

“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing and so becoming!” observed Meg complacently. “Have you anything decent, Jo?”

“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come, Bethy?”

“If you won’t let any of the boys talk to me.”

“Not a boy!”

“I like to please Laurie, and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so kind; but I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll work hard and not trouble anyone, and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so I’ll go.”

“That’s my good girl; you do try to fight off your shyness, and I love you for it. Fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know, and a cheery word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother.” And Jo gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the rosy roundness of her youth.

“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,” said Amy, showing her mail.

“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,” added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.

“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play tomorrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a broom.

When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose to which it was now put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused all her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy’s ornament.

Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters’ toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.

“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky and the weathercock; I wish he would go, too. There’s Laurie, looking like a sailor—nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here’s a carriage full of people—a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame; poor thing, he’s got a crutch. Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be quick, girls! It’s getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Look, Meg, isn’t that the man who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?”

“So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the mountains. There is Sallie; I’m glad she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?” cried Meg in a flutter.

“A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat straight, it looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff. Now, then, come on!”

“Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It’s too absurd! You shall not make a guy
^bu
of yourself,” remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had sent for a joke.

“I just will, though, for it’s capital—so shady, light, and big. It will make fun, and I don’t mind being a guy if I’m comfortable.” With that Jo marched straight away and the rest Hollowed—a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims.

Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial manner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would do well to imitate, and she was much flattered by Mr. Ned’s assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie “primmed up his mouth” when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a stand-off-don‘t-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not “dreadful,” but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry little person, and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends.

Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry
^bv
like a disturbed water bug. Jo’s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility: it broke the ice in the beginning by producing a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Kate looked rather amazed at Jo’s proceedings, especially as she exclaimed “Christopher Columbus!” when she lost her oar; and Laurie said, “My dear fellow, did I hurt you?” when he tripped over her feet in taking his place. But after putting up her glass to examine the queer girl several times, Miss Kate decided that she was “odd, but rather clever,” and smiled upon her from afar.

Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars
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with uncommon “skill and dexterity.” Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge. He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs which fresh-men think it their bounden duty to assume; he was not very wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white piqué
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dress clean and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks.