CHAPTER TWENTY
CONFIDENTIAL
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 in 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 a 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 up 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.
“I’ll try not to be vain,” said Amy. “I don’t think I like it only because it’s
so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to
remind me of something.”
“Do you mean Aunt March?” asked her mother, laughing.
“No, to remind me not to be selfish.” Amy looked so earnest and sincere
about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the
little plan.
“I’ve thought a great deal lately about my ‘bundle of naughties’, and
being selfish is the largest one in it, so I’m going to try hard to cure it, if I
can. Beth isn’t selfish, and that’s the reason everyone loves her and feels so
bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn’t feel so bad about me if I
was sick, and I don’t deserve to have them, but I’d like to be loved and
missed by a great many friends, so I’m going to try and be like Beth all I
can. I’m apt to forget my resolutions, but if I had something always about
me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May we try this way?”
“Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring,
dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be
good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart,
little daughter, and we will soon have you home again.”
That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler’s
safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth’s room, and finding her mother in
her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a
worried gesture and an undecided look.
“What is it, deary?” asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face
which invited confidence.
“I want to tell you something, Mother.”
“About Meg?”
“How quickly you guessed! Yes, it’s about her, and though it’s a little
thing, it fidgets me.”
“Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn’t
been here, I hope?” asked Mrs. March rather sharply.
“No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had,” said Jo, settling
herself on the floor at her mother’s feet. “Last summer Meg left a pair of
gloves over at the Laurences’ and only one was returned. We forgot about it,
till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didn’t dare
say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn’t it a dreadful state of
things?”
“Do you think Meg cares for him?” asked Mrs. March, with an anxious
look.
“Mercy me! I don’t know anything about love and such nonsense!” cried
Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. “In novels, the girls show
it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like
fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort. She eats and drinks and
sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight in my face when I talk
about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers.
I forbid him to do it, but he doesn’t mind me as he ought.”
“Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?”
“Who?” cried Jo, staring.
“Mr. Brooke. I call him ‘John’ now. We fell into the way of doing so at
the hospital, and he likes it.”
“Oh, dear! I know you’ll take his part. He’s been good to Father, and you
won’t send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing!
To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him.”
And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
“My dear, don’t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened.
John went with me at Mr. Laurence’s request, and was so devoted to poor
Father that we couldn’t help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and
honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a
comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our
leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he
could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen
to him, but I will not consent to Meg’s engaging herself so young.”
“Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I
felt it, and now it’s worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg
myself, and keep her safe in the family.”
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, “Jo,
I confide in you and don’t wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John
comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings
toward him.”
“She’ll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be
all up with her. She’s got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun
if anyone looks sentimentlly at her. She read the short reports he sent more
than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes
brown eyes, and doesn’t think John an ugly name, and she’ll go and fall in
love, and there’s an end of peace and fun, and cozy times together. I see it
all! They’ll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge. Meg
will be absorbed and no good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a
fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family, and I shall
break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear
me! Why weren’t we all boys, then there wouldn’t be any bother.”
Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her
fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an
air of relief.
“You don’t like it, Mother? I’m glad of it. Let’s send him about his
business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we
always have been.”
“I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes
of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can, and I
am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will
be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have
agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before
twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by
doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him
unkindly. My pretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with
her.”
“Hadn’t you rather have her marry a rich man?” asked Jo, as her mother’s
voice faltered a little over the last words.
“Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never feel
the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to
know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave
him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg
comfortable. I’m not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable
position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love
and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good
fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be
had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some
privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see Meg
begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of
a good man’s heart, and that is better than a fortune.”
“I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I’m disappointed about Meg,
for I’d planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of
luxury all her days. Wouldn’t it be nice?” asked Jo, looking up with a
brighter face.
“He is younger than she, you know,” began Mrs. March, but Jo broke
in…
“Only a little, he’s old for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in
his manners if he likes. Then he’s rich and generous and good, and loves us
all, and I say it’s a pity my plan is spoiled.”
“I’m afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether
too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don’t make
plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can’t
meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get ‘romantic rubbish’ as
you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship.”
“Well, I won’t, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting
snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish
wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds
will be roses, and kittens cats, more’s the pity!”
“What’s that about flatirons and cats?” asked Meg, as she crept into the
room with the finished letter in her hand.
“Only one of my stupid speeches. I’m going to bed. Come, Peggy,” said
Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
“Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to
John,” said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.
“Do you call him ‘John’?” asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes
looking down into her mother’s.
“Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,” replied
Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
“I’m glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so
inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,” was Meg’s answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went
away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She does
not love John yet, but will soon learn to.”
