Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (49 page)

As Miss Lamb had “enjoyed” the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.

“Amy, we
must
go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us; we are
pining
for a visit. I don’t dare to ask
you,
Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don’t think I shall have the heart to send you away.”

Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester’s gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Didn’t I do that well?” asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.

“Nothing could have been worse,” was Amy’s crushing reply. “What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?”

“Why, it’s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it’s no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do.”

“You needn’t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven’t a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,” said Amy despairingly.

Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

“How shall I behave here?” she asked, as they approached the third mansion.

“Just as you please. I wash my hands of you,” was Amy’s short answer.

“Then I’ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we’ll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution,” returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit.

An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that “Tom Brown was a brick,”
^fy
regardless of the improper form of praise; and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.

Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart’s content. Mr. Tudor’s uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us—that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie,
^fz
some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March.

It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie’s pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy’s cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo’s best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, “It was such fun to hear about Laurie’s larks.”

“Capital boys, aren’t they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that,” said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

“Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?” asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo’s dilapidated appearance.

“Don’t like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn’t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and
I
don’t consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone.”

“You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right,” said Amy reprovingly.

“No, it wouldn‘t,” returned perverse Jo, “I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather’s uncle’s nephew’s niece was third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels.”

“It’s no use trying to argue with you,” began Amy.

“Not the least, my dear,” interrupted Jo, “so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I’m deeply grateful.”

The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged.

“Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it’s really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross.”

“Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it’s a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don’t believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet.”

“What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. “I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I fancy.”

Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, “Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you’d remember that, and practice it, you’d be better liked than I am, because there is more of you.”

“I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I’m willing to own that you are right, only it’s easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don’t feel like it. It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn’t it?”

“It’s a greater not to be able to hide them. I don’t mind saying that I don’t approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I’m not called upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is.”

“But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I’ve had Teddy to manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we
ought
to do it to others if we can.”

“Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can’t be taken as a sample of other boys,” said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the “remarkable boy,” if he had heard it. “If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don’t approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn’t have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical.”

“So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That’s a nice sort of morality.”

“I can’t argue about it, I only know that it’s the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don’t like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one.”

“I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We can’t agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats
^ga
and hooting, I think.”

“Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry Aunt with your new ideas.”

“I’ll try not to, but I’m always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it’s my doom, and I can’t help it.”

They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both the aunts “my deared” her affectionately, looking what they afterward said emphatically, “That child improves every day.”

“Are you going to help about the fair, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young.

“Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give.”

“I’m not,” put in Jo decidedly. “I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it’s a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to work.”

“I am willing to work: it’s for the freedmen
^gb
as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant.”

“Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear; it’s a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do not, and that is trying,” observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.

If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute; but, unfortunately, we don’t have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.

I don’t like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I’d rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent.”

“Ahem!” coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

“I told you so,” said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.

Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.

“Do you speak French, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on Amy’s.

“Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like,” replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably.

“How are you about languages?” asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

“Don’t know a word. I’m very stupid about studying anything, can’t bear French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language,” was the brusque reply.

Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, “You are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes don’t trouble you any more, do they?”

“Not at all, thank you, ma‘am. I’m very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time arrives.”

“Good girl! You deserve to go, and I’m sure you will some day,” said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for her.

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo’s face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing.

“Most observing bird,” said the old lady.

“Come and take a walk, my dear?” cried Polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of lump sugar.

“Thank you, I will. Come, Amy.” And Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished—

“You’d better do it, Mary, I’ll supply the money,” and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, “I certainly will, if her father and mother consent.”

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