Hello friends and welcome to the continuation
in this calm reading of "Little Women". Tonight I shall be reading for you chapter
25 "The First Wedding", as well as chapter 26, "Artistic Attempts". If you are new to the channel, I would encourage
you to subscribe, so you will be notified of upcoming readings. And now, let us find that calm place, that
calm place where you can safely relax. Let us settle into that place. Take a deep breath, unwind, and let us begin
these chapters. CHAPTER TWENTY-F
IVE
THE FIRST WEDDING The June roses over the porch were awake bright
and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine,
like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy
faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen, for some
peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod
and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome
to those who
came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest
full-blown flower to the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance
to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long. Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all
that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making
it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would
she ha
ve. “I don’t want a fashionable wedding, but
only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self.” So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing
into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and
the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which ‘her John’ liked
best of all the flowers that grew. “You do look just like our own dear Meg,
only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if
it wouldn’t crumple your dress,”
cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done. “Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and
don’t mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort
put into it today,” and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April
faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old. “Now I’m going to tie John’s cravat
for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in the study,” and Meg ra
n
down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went,
conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid
in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest. As the younger girls stand together, giving
the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes
which three years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now. Jo’s angles are much sof
tened, she has learned
to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick
coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks,
a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today. Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet
than ever. The beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in
them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which
touches the
young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully
of ‘being better soon’. Amy is with truth considered ‘the flower
of the family’, for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not
beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the
make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious
yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as
beauty itself. Amy’s nose still afflicted her, for it never
would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to
her whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully
fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant than ever. All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their
best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just
what they we
re, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives
to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood. There were to be no ceremonious performances,
everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she
was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom
fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister
marching upstairs with
a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm. “Upon my word, here’s a state of things!” cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor
prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle. “You oughtn’t to be seen till the last
minute, child.” “I’m not a show, Aunty, and no one is
coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I’m too happy to care what anyone says or
thinks, and I’m going to have my little wedding just as I li
ke it. John, dear, here’s your hammer.” And away went Meg to help ‘that man’ in
his highly improper employment. Mr. Brooke didn’t even say, “Thank you,”
but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding
door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden
dew in her sharp old eyes. A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied
by the indecorous exclamation, “Jupiter Ammon! Jo’s upset the cake again!” caused a momenta
ry flurry, which was hardly
over when a flock of cousins arrived, and ‘the party came in’, as Beth used to say
when a child. “Don’t let that young giant come near
me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes,” whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms
filled and Laurie’s black head towered above the rest. “He has promised to be very good today,
and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes,” returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules
to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the
old lady with a devotion
that nearly distracted her. There was no bridal procession, but a sudden
silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple took their places under the
green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath
to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which
only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom’s hand trembled visibly,
and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husband’s
eyes, and said, “
I will!” with such tender trust in her own face and
voice that her mother’s heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly. Jo did not cry, though she was very near it
once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black
eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother’s
shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching
her white forehe
ad and the flower in her hair. It wasn’t at all the thing, I’m afraid,
but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, “The first kiss for Marmee!” and
turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked
more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their privileges to the fullest
extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully
made, fell upon her in the hall, crying with a sob and a chuckle,
“Bless you, deary,
a hundred times! The cake ain’t hurt a mite, and everything
looks lovely.” Everybody cleared up after that, and said
something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts
are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were
already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch
of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled
at one another when water, lemonade, a
nd coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which
the three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted
on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled
expression on his face. “Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?”
he whispered, “or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose
this morning?” “No, your grandfather kindly offered us
his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but Father put
away a little for Beth, and
dispatched the rest to the Soldier’s Home. You know he thinks that wine should be used
only in illness, and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to
any young man under her roof.” Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie
frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous
way, “I like that! For I’ve seen enough harm done to wish other
women would think as you do.” “You are not made wise by exp
erience, I
hope?” and there was an anxious accent in Meg’s voice. “No. I give you my word for it. Don’t think too well of me, either, this
is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common as
water and almost as harmless, I don’t care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it,
one doesn’t like to refuse, you see.” “But you will, for the sake of others, if
not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more
reason to call this the happiest day of my life.” A demand s
o sudden and so serious made the
young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would
keep it at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend’s
good. She did not speak, but she looked up at him
with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, “No one can refuse
me anything today.” Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering
smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily
, “I promise, Mrs. Brooke!” “I thank you, very, very much.” “And I drink ‘long life to your resolution’,
Teddy,” cried Jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and beamed
approvingly upon him. So the toast was drunk, the pledge made and
loyally kept in spite of many temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized
a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life. After lunch, people strolled about, by twos
and threes, throug
h the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together
in the middle of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the
finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding. “All the married people take hands and dance
round the new-made husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters
prance in couples outside!” cried Laurie, promenading down the path with
Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill t
hat everyone else followed their example
without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol
began it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie Moffat, after a moment’s hesitation, threw
her train over her arm and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and
Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she
just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and
dance about the bridal pair, w
hile the young folks pervaded the garden like butterflies
on a midsummer day. Want of breath brought the impromptu ball
to a close, and then people began to go. “I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish
you well, but I think you’ll be sorry for it,” said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the
bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, “You’ve got a treasure, young man, see
that you deserve it.” “That is the prettiest wedding I’ve been
to for an age, Ned, and I don’t see why, for there wasn’t a bit of
style about it,”
observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away. “Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge
in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied,” said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest after the
excitement of the morning. “I’ll do my best to gratify you, Sir,”
was Laurie’s unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put
in his buttonhole. The little house was not far away, an
d the
only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came down, looking like a pretty
Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered
about her to say ‘good-by’, as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand
tour. “Don’t feel that I am separated from you,
Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving John so much,” she said, clinging
to her mother, with full eyes for a moment. “I shall come
every day, Father, and expect
to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal,
and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by!” They stood watching her, with faces full of
love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband’s arm, with
her hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face—and so Meg’s
mar
ried life began. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS It takes people a long time to learn the difference
between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through
much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch
of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the ‘mud-pie’
business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such
taste and skill that
her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink
to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived
in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at
all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay
about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner
bell at her door in case of fire.
Raphael’s face was found boldly executed
on the underside of the moulding board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some time. From fire to oil was a natural transition
for burned fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his castoff
palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine vie
ws
such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would
have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would
have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known
rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring
at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with
a l
urid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens;
and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds,
with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailor’s
shirt or a king’s robe, as the spectator pleased. Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire
family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened into crayon sketches, they did be
tter,
for the likenesses were good, and Amy’s hair, Jo’s nose, Meg’s mouth, and Laurie’s
eyes were pronounced ‘wonderfully fine’. A return to clay and plaster followed, and
ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet
shelves onto people’s heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their
incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light
of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought
to an ab
rupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook
to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping
and screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about
the shed with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected
rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was
dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she exca
vated that her knife went too
far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least. After this Amy subsided, till a mania for
sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies,
and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass
to book ‘a delicious bit’, composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken
mullein stalk, or ‘a heavenly mass of clouds’, that looked like a choice display of feat
herbeds
when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on
the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose
trying after ‘points of sight’, or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called. If ‘genius is eternal patience’, as Michelangelo
affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of
all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do
something worthy to be called ‘high ar
t’. She was learning, doing, and enjoying other
things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even
if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one
of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and
take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that
such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts
was tact. She had an instin
ctive sense of what was pleasing
and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the
time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, “If Amy went
to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she’d know exactly what to do.” One of her weaknesses was a desire to move
in ‘our best society’, without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments,
and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes
, and she liked to associate with
those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what
was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman,
she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came
she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her. “My lady,” as her friends called her,
sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that
money cannot buy refine
ment of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks. “I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,”
Amy said, coming in with an important air one day. “Well, little girl, what is it?” replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately
young lady still remained ‘the baby’. “Our drawing class breaks up next week,
and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sket
ch the
broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways,
and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any
difference.” “Why should they?” and Mrs. March put
the question with what the girls called her ‘Maria Theresa air’. “You know as well as I that it does make
a difference with nearly everyone, so don’t ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when
your chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly
duckling turned out a swan, you know.” and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she
possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit. Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her
maternal pride as she asked, “Well, my swan, what is your plan?” “I should like to ask the girls out to lunch
next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river,
perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them.” “That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and c
offee will be
all that is necessary, I suppose?” “Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French
chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want
my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living.” “How many young ladies are there?” asked
her mother, beginning to look sober. “Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I
dare say they won’t all come.” “Bless me, child, you will have to charter
an omnibus to carry them about.” “Why, Mother, how
can you think of such
a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come,
so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurence’s cherry-bounce.” (Hannah’s pronunciation of char-a-banc.) “All of this will be expensive, Amy.” “Not very. I’ve calculated the cost, and I’ll pay
for it myself.” “Don’t you think, dear, that as these
girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler
plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much be
tter for us than
buying or borrowing what we don’t need, and attempting a style not in keeping with
our circumstances?” “If I can’t have it as I like, I don’t
care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well,
if you and the girls will help a little, and I don’t see why I can’t if I’m willing
to pay for it,” said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy. Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent
teacher, and when it was possible she left
her children to learn alone the lessons which
she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much
as they did salts and senna. “Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon
it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper,
I’ll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever
way you decide, I’ll do my best to help you.” “Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind.” and away went Amy to lay her plan before her
sisters. Meg
agreed at once, and promised her aid,
gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project and
would have nothing to do with it at first. “Why in the world should you spend your
money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don’t
care a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense
to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a
coupe,”
said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood
for social enterprises. “I don’t truckle, and I hate being patronized
as much as you do!” returned Amy indignantly, for the two still
jangled when such questions arose. “The girls do care for me, and I for them,
and there’s a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what
you call fashionable nonsense. You don’t care to make people like you,
to go into good society, and cult
ivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every
chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows
out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That’s not my way.” When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed
her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on
her side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited
extent that she naturally found herself worst
ed in an argument. Amy’s definition of Jo’s idea of independence
was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented
to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as ‘a
nonsensical business’. The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted,
and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week’s
work was deranged, and prophesied
that “ef the washin’ and ironin’ warn’t done
reg’lar, nothin’ would go well anywheres”. This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic
machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy’s motto was ‘Nil desperandum’,
and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah’s cooking didn’t
turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty,
and the chocolate wouldn’t froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy exp
ected,
so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted
up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep
her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents,
and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying. If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies
were to come on Tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On
Monday morning the weather was in that
undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew
a little, and didn’t make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up
theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of
their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly
shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best
of what
she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains
on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the
lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about. The lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed
it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver
would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and Mother
were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scen
es, Jo
had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very
decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy
cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she
should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the ‘cherry
bounce’ and the broken bridge were her strong points. Then came the hours of suspense, during which
she vibrated from parlor to porch, whil
e public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched
the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and
at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable
portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost. “No doubt about the weather today, they
will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them,” said Amy, as the
sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her sec
ret soul
she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting
a little stale. “I can’t get any lobsters, so you will
have to do without salad today,” said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with
an expression of placid despair. “Use the chicken then, the toughness won’t
matter in a salad,” advised his wife. “Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute,
and the kittens got at it. I’m very sorry, Amy,” added Beth, who
was still a patroness of cats. “Then
I must have a lobster, for tongue
alone won’t do,” said Amy decidedly. “Shall I rush into town and demand one?”
asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr. “You’d come bringing it home under your
arm without any paper, just to try me. I’ll go myself,” answered Amy, whose temper
was beginning to fail. Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a
genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled
spirit and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay,
the object of her desire
was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and
off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought. As the omnibus contained only one other passenger,
a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to
find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory
figures that she did not observe a newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle,
till a m
asculine voice said, “Good morning, Miss March,” and, looking up, she beheld
one of Laurie’s most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before
she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself that
she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young man’s greeting with her usual
suavity and spirit. They got on excellently, for Amy’s chief
care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was
chatting awa
y in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket,
and—oh horror!—the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to
the highborn eyes of a Tudor! “By Jove, she’s forgotten her dinner!” cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet
monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the
old lady. “Please don’t—it’s—it’s mine,”
murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. “Oh, really, I
beg pardon. It’s an uncommonly fine one, isn’t it?”
said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to
his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her
basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, “Don’t you wish you were to have some
of the salad he’s going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat
it?” Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles
of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a
halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about ‘the charming young ladies’ diverted
his mind from the comical mishap. “I suppose he’ll laugh and joke over it
with Laurie, but I shan’t see them, that’s a comfort,” thought Amy, as Tudor bowed
and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home (though
she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets
of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which
now seemed m
ore irksome than before, and at twelve o’clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested
in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday’s failure by a grand
success today, so she ordered the ‘cherry bounce’, and drove away in state to meet
and escort her guests to the banquet. “There’s the rumble, they’re coming! I’ll go onto the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child
to have a good time after all her trouble,” said Mrs. March, s
uiting the action to the
word. But after one glance, she retired, with an
indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one
young lady. “Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the
things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for
twelve before a single girl,” cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited
to stop even for a laugh. In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial
to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of t
he family, being of a dramatic
turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set,
for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of,
the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas
for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood
till sunset, when ‘the party went out’. As she came walking in, looking very tired
but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had
disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo’s mouth. “You’ve had a loverly afternoon for your
drive, dear,” said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come. “Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed
to enjoy herself, I thought,” observed Beth, with unusual warmth. “Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company,
and I can’t make such del
icious stuff as yours,” asked Meg soberly. “Take it all. I’m the only one here who likes sweet things,
and it will mold before I can dispose of it,” answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the
generous store she had laid in for such an end as this. “It’s a pity Laurie isn’t here to help
us,” began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days. A warning look from her mother checked any
further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly
observed,
“salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn...” Here a general explosion of laughter cut short
the ‘history of salads’, to the great surprise of the learned gentleman. “Bundle everything into a basket and send
it to the Hummels. Germans like messes. I’m sick of the sight of this, and there’s
no reason you should all die of a surfeit because I’ve been a fool,” cried Amy,
wiping her eyes. “I thought I should have died when I saw
you two girls rattling about in the w
hat-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng,” sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter. “I’m very sorry you were disappointed,
dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,” said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly
regret. “I am satisfied. I’ve done what I undertook, and it’s not
my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,” said Amy with
a little quiver in her voice. “I thank you all very much for helping me,
and I’ll
thank you still more if you won’t allude to it for a month, at least.” No one did for several months, but the word
‘fete’ always produced a general smile, and Laurie’s birthday gift to Amy was a
tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.
Comments
Hello friends! Here is the continuation of "Little Women", in which we see Meg getting married. The video backdrop today is a bed of tulips that bloomed a little while ago in my yard. I wish you peace and relaxation. Till soon, Marcus
What sweet chapters. Thank you 😊❤❤❤
Oh great timing again 😅 It’s about 8degrees C here at the minute. There’s a storm raging outside and I’m settling in the warm to listen. Beautiful music ❣️ thank you so much