Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (34 page)

The little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone outside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children. She missed her mother’s help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she
did
fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady’s jewels.

During one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her train about with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurie’s ring nor see his face peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, “Ain’t we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! ha!”

Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received.

“Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to consult you about a very serious matter,” said Amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. “That bird is the trial of my life,” she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. “Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, ‘Come out and take a walk, my dear.’ I
couldn’t
help laughing, which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.”

“Did the spider accept the old fellow’s invitation?” asked Laurie, yawning.

“Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on Aunt’s chair, calling out, ‘Catch her! Catch her! Catch her!’ as I chased the spider.”

“That’s a lie! Oh lor!” cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie’s toes.

“I’d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,” cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely croaked, “Allyluyer! Bless your buttons, dear!”

“Now I’m ready,” said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don’t want any ill feeling over my tomb.”

Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.

“What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth’s giving away her things?” asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.

She explained and then asked anxiously, “What about Beth?”

“I’m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to Grandpa.
She
never thought of a will.”

Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of trouble; but she only said, “Don’t people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?”

“Yes, ‘codicils,’ they call them.”

“Put one in mine then—that I wish
all
my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks.”

Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, “Is there really any danger about Beth?”

“I’m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don’t cry, dear.” And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.

When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.

I don’t think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg’s tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell
were
the little rose and Mother’s face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.

Hannah had “dished up” an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father’s state, Mr. Brooke’s promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie’s hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.

What a strange yet pleasant day that was! So brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth’s side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.

Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually “sniffed” herself, and never once said, “I told you so.” Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie’s opinion, that she behaved “like a capital little woman.” Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her “good girl,” blessed her buttons, and begged her to “come and take a walk, dear,” in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night, and I’m not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy’s cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother’s lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her.

“On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,” looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. “It is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this.”

“Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I’ve tried to make. The woman’s face is not good—it’s too beautiful for me to draw—but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don’t seem so far away, and that helps me.”

As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his mother’s knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute’s pause, she added gravely, “I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she’d like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it’s too big. I’d like to wear them, Mother, can I?”

“They are very pretty, but I think you’re rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,” said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.