CHAPTER NINE
MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR
“I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those children
should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as she stood
packing the ‘go abroady’ trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters.
“And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole
fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like a
windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.
“And such lovely weather, I’m so glad of that,” added Beth, tidily sorting
neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion.
“I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice things,”
said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her
sister’s cushion.
“I wish you were all going, but as you can’t, I shall keep my adventures
to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can do when you have
been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready,” said Meg,
glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly
perfect in their eyes.
“What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?” asked Amy, who
had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs.
March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the
proper time came.
“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I
wanted the violet silk, but there isn’t time to make it over, so I must be
contented with my old tarlaton.”
“It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off
beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have
had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were
usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but
Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and
Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me see,
there’s my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth,
then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring,
doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!”
“Never mind, you’ve got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always
look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little store of
finery in which her soul delighted.
“It isn’t low-necked, and it doesn’t sweep enough, but it will have to do.
My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as
if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the fashion, and my bonnet
doesn’t look like Sallie’s. I didn’t like to say anything, but I was sadly
disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother black with a white handle, but
she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowish handle. It’s strong and
neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside
Annie’s silk one with a gold top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella
with great disfavor.
“Change it,” advised Jo.
“I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took so much
pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I’m not going
to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my
comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and sort of
elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common.” And
Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.
“Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put
some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins,
fresh from Hannah’s hands.
“No, I wouldn’t, for the smart caps won’t match the plain gowns without
any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said Jo decidedly.
“I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes
and bows on my caps?” said Meg impatiently.
“You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could only
go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth in her quiet way.
“So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret, but it does seem as if the
more one gets the more one wants, doesn’t it? There now, the trays are
ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for Mother to
pack,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to
the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton, which she called her
‘ball dress’ with an important air.
The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of
novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather
reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented than
she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take good
care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of
irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her
first taste of fashionable life.
The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted,
at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its occupants. But
they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put
their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that
they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their
gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were
made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine
carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It
suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and
conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French
phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as
well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things, the
more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and
dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she
was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and
silk stockings.
She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls
were busily employed in ‘having a good time’. They shopped, walked, rode,
and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at home in the
evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to entertain them. Her
older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was
extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat,
jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old
lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Everyone
petted her, and ‘Daisey’, as they called her, was in a fair way to have her
head turned.
When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin
wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and
making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan, looking
older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie’s crisp new one. Meg
saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her cheeks began to
burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud. No one said a word
about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and
Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms. But in their kindness Meg
saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by
herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy
butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid
brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover
off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
“It’s for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are
altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.
“They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,” put in the
maid, holding it to Meg.
“What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,” cried the
girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
“The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg
simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
“Oh, indeed!” said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note into
her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride, for the
few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by
their beauty.
Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself,
and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or
skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that Clara, the elder sister,
told her she was ‘the sweetest little thing she ever saw’, and they looked
quite charmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her
despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves to Mrs.
Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns
against her rippling hair and fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike
her as so very shabby now.
She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart’s
content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie
made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice. Major
Lincoln asked who ‘the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes’ was, and Mr.
Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she ‘didn’t dawdle, but had
some spring in her’, as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a
very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her
extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her
partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of
the flowery wall…
“How old is he?”
“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.
“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? Sallie says
they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.”
“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well,
early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs. Moffat.
“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up
when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if she
was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we offered to
lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.
“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlaton is
all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good excuse for
offering a decent one.”
Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and
rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it
helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just
heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help
understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not,
and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has made her plans,” “that fib about
her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlaton,” till she was ready to cry and rush home
to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her
best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no
one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was
all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder
and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few
natural tears. Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world
to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she
had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was
spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was
a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who
judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with
the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by
the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest
calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half
resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking
out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning,
and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their
worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once.
They treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest
in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity.
All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till
Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air…
“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for
Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment to
you.”
Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply
demurely, “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”
“Why not, Cherie?” asked Miss Belle.
“He’s too old.”
“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!” cried
Miss Clara.
“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the
merriment in her eyes.
“You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss
Belle, laughing.
“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also at the
queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed
lover.
“About your age,” Nan said.
“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned Meg, tossing
her head.
“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie, looking
wise about nothing.
“Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond
of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is
quite natural that we children should play together,” and Meg hoped they
would say no more.
“It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod.
“Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss Belle with
a shrug.
“I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything
for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in
silk and lace.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie. “I’ve got my new pink silk for
Thursday and don’t want a thing.”
“Nor I…” began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did
want several things and could not have them.
“What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.
“My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn
last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very
uncomfortable.
“Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was not an
observing young lady.
“I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did
not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, “Only that? How funny…” She
did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in,
saying kindly…
“Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn’t out
yet? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for
I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown, and you shall
wear it to please me, won’t you, dear?”
“You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress if you don’t, it does
well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.
“Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do
it, and you’d be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there. I shan’t
let anyone see you till you are done, and then we’ll burst upon them like
Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,” said Belle in her
persuasive tone.
Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she
would be ‘a little beauty’ after touching up caused her to accept and forget
all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats.
On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and
between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled
her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder,
touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense
would have added ‘a soupcon of rouge’, if Meg had not rebelled. They
laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe
and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A
set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even
earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not
show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg
to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk
boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan,
and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle
surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense,
clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room
where the others were waiting.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings
tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had
really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was ‘a little
beauty’. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for
several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her
borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.
“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and
those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly,
and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don’t any
of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said Belle, as she hurried
away, looking well pleased with her success.
“You don’t look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I’m nowhere
beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you’re quite French, I assure
you. Let your flowers hang, don’t be so careful of them, and be sure you
don’t trip,” returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than
herself.
Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs
and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests
were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine
clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect.
Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very
affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared
at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced,
and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old
ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired
who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of
them…
“Daisy March—father a colonel in the army—one of our first families,
but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet
creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”
“Dear me!” said the old lady, putting up her glass for another observation
of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at
Mrs. Moffat’s fibs. The ‘queer feeling’ did not pass away, but she imagined
herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on pretty well, though the
tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and
she was in constant fear lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or
broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young
gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and
looked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her
with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he
bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and
wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle
nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to
see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
“Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won’t care for it, or
let it change me a bit,” thought Meg, and rustled across the room to shake
hands with her friend.
“I’m glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn’t.” she said, with her most
grown-up air.
“Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did,” answered
Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her
maternal tone.
“What shall you tell her?” asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his
opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
“I shall say I didn’t know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike
yourself, I’m quite afraid of you,” he said, fumbling at his glove button.
“How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it.
Wouldn’t Jo stare if she saw me?” said Meg, bent on making him say
whether he thought her improved or not.
“Yes, I think she would,” returned Laurie gravely.
“Don’t you like me so?” asked Meg.
“No, I don’t,” was the blunt reply.
“Why not?” in an anxious tone.
He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed
dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had
not a particle of his usual politeness in it.
“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg
walked away, saying petulantly, “You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”
Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool
her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As
she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him
saying to his mother…
“They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but
they have spoiled her entirely. She’s nothing but a doll tonight.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Meg. “I wish I’d been sensible and worn my own
things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so
uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.”
She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the
curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one
touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with
his very best bow and his hand out…
“Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me.”
“I’m afraid it will be too disagreeable to you,” said Meg, trying to look
offended and failing entirely.
“Not a bit of it, I’m dying to do it. Come, I’ll be good. I don’t like your
gown, but I do think you are just splendid.” And he waved his hands, as if
words failed to express his admiration.
Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch
the time, “Take care my skirt doesn’t trip you up. It’s the plague of my life
and I was a goose to wear it.”
“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie, looking
down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they
were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to
see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than
ever after their small tiff.
“Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?” said Meg, as he stood
fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she
would not own why.
“Won’t I!” said Laurie, with alacrity.
“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t
understand the joke, and it will worry Mother.”
“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily
added…
“I shall tell them myself all about it, and ‘fess’ to Mother how silly I’ve
been. But I’d rather do it myself. So you’ll not tell, will you?”
“I give you my word I won’t, only what shall I say when they ask me?”
“Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time.”
“I’ll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You don’t
look as if you were having a good time. Are you?” And Laurie looked at her
with an expression which made her answer in a whisper…
“No, not just now. Don’t think I’m horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but
this sort doesn’t pay, I find, and I’m getting tired of it.”
“Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?” said Laurie, knitting his
black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant
addition to the party.
“He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he’s coming for
them. What a bore!” said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused Laurie
immensely.
He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking
champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving ‘like a pair
of fools’, as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to
watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was
needed.
“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I
wouldn’t, Meg, your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered,
leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped
to pick up her fan.
“I’m not Meg tonight, I’m ‘a doll’ who does all sorts of crazy things.
Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers’ and be desperately good
again,” she answered with an affected little laugh.
“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-
pleased at the change he saw in her.
Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.
After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly
upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that
scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no
chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good
night.
“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had
already begun.
“Silence a la mort,” replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he
went away.
This little bit of byplay excited Annie’s curiosity, but Meg was too tired
for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and
hadn’t enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the next
day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight’s fun and
feeling that she had ‘sat in the lap of luxury’ long enough.
“It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all
the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg, looking
about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the
Sunday evening.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull
and poor to you after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who had given
her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick to see any
change in children’s faces.
Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a
charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her
spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully
staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As the clock struck nine
and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth’s stool,
leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely…
“Marmee, I want to ‘fess’.”
“I thought so. What is it, dear?”
“Shall I go away?” asked Jo discreetly.
“Of course not. Don’t I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to
speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the
dreadful things I did at the Moffats’.”
“We are prepared,” said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious.
“I told you they dressed me up, but I didn’t tell you that they powdered
and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie
thought I wasn’t proper. I know he did, though he didn’t say so, and one
man called me ‘a doll’. I knew it was silly, but they flattered me and said I
was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me.”
“Is that all?” asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast
face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her
little follies.
“No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether
abominable,” said Meg self-reproachfully.
“There is something more, I think.” And Mrs. March smoothed the soft
cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly…
“Yes. It’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say
and think such things about us and Laurie.”
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’,
and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased
that such ideas should be put into Meg’s innocent mind.
“Well, if that isn’t the greatest rubbish I ever heard,” cried Jo indignantly.
“Why didn’t you pop out and tell them so on the spot?”
“I couldn’t, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn’t help hearing at first,
and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn’t remember that I ought to go
away.”
“Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I’ll show you how to settle such
ridiculous stuff. The idea of having ‘plans’ and being kind to Laurie because
he’s rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won’t he shout when I tell him what
those silly things say about us poor children?” And Jo laughed, as if on
second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.
“If you tell Laurie, I’ll never forgive you! She mustn’t, must she,
Mother?” said Meg, looking distressed.
“No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can,”
said Mrs. March gravely. “I was very unwise to let you go among people of
whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of
these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express
for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg.”
“Don’t be sorry, I won’t let it hurt me. I’ll forget all the bad and
remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very
much for letting me go. I’ll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I
know I’m a silly little girl, and I’ll stay with you till I’m fit to take care of
myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can’t help saying I
like it,” said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.
“That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not
become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to
know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the
admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg.”
Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind
her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to
see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that
sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up
amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could
not follow.
“Mother, do you have ‘plans’, as Mrs. Moffat said?” asked Meg
bashfully.
“Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ
somewhat from Mrs. Moffat’s, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for
the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart
of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too
young to understand me, and mothers’ lips are the fittest to speak of such
things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to
my ‘plans’ and help me carry them out, if they are good.”
Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they
were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and
watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet
cheery way…
“I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be
admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and
wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and
sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a
good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and
I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural
to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it,
so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and
worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have
you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because they are rich,
or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting.
Money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing,
but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d
rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented,
than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”
“Poor girls don’t stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put
themselves forward,” sighed Meg.
“Then we’ll be old maids,” said Jo stoutly.
“Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or
unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands,” said Mrs. March
decidedly. “Don’t be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover.
Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so
love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things
to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your
own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing
remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your confidant, Father to
be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether
married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”
“We will, Marmee, we will!” cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade
them good night.
