From 72e6005f64ccdbee41058bfb8964fa4a72a53eb5 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: maaike Date: Tue, 5 Dec 2023 18:04:14 +0100 Subject: [PATCH] basic implementation, splitting doesn't work --- gutenberg_cleanup.py | 66 +- little_women.txt | 21187 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ pride_and_prejudice.txt | 14911 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the_great_gatsby.txt | 6776 ++++++++++++ 4 files changed, 42929 insertions(+), 11 deletions(-) create mode 100644 little_women.txt create mode 100644 pride_and_prejudice.txt create mode 100644 the_great_gatsby.txt diff --git a/gutenberg_cleanup.py b/gutenberg_cleanup.py index b9974e1..1cd4cb0 100644 --- a/gutenberg_cleanup.py +++ b/gutenberg_cleanup.py @@ -4,7 +4,9 @@ # This code is to be used as is. import os +import re import sys +import argparse # Markers for the start and end of Project Gutenberg headers/footers TEXT_START_MARKERS = frozenset(( @@ -63,7 +65,6 @@ ' this Project Gutenberg edition.', )) - TEXT_END_MARKERS = frozenset(( "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG", "*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG", @@ -93,12 +94,11 @@ " *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG", )) - LEGALESE_START_MARKERS = frozenset(("<") - sys.exit(1) + # sys.exit(1) - file_path = # Add your code here to get the file path from the command line arguments + file_path = args.file_path book_title = os.path.basename(file_path).replace('.txt', '') + print(book_title) + # 1. Read the text file + with open(file_path, "r", encoding="UTF8") as book: + text = book.read() + # 2. Clean the text - # 3. Save the cleaned text in the book title folder + cleaned_text = strip_headers(text) + + split_book_by_chapter(cleaned_text, book_title) + + - # 4. Split the text into chapters and save them in the book title folder under a subfolder named 'chapters' if __name__ == '__main__': - main() \ No newline at end of file + main() diff --git a/little_women.txt b/little_women.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a83e1f6 --- /dev/null +++ b/little_women.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21187 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Little Women + +This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online +at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: Little Women + + +Author: Louisa May Alcott + +Release date: May 1, 1996 [eBook #514] + Most recently updated: November 4, 2022 + +Language: English + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE WOMEN *** + + + +Little Women + +by Louisa May Alcott + + +Contents + + PART 1 + CHAPTER ONE PLAYING PILGRIMS + CHAPTER TWO A MERRY CHRISTMAS + CHAPTER THREE THE LAURENCE BOY + CHAPTER FOUR BURDENS + CHAPTER FIVE BEING NEIGHBORLY + CHAPTER SIX BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL + CHAPTER SEVEN AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION + CHAPTER EIGHT JO MEETS APOLLYON + CHAPTER NINE MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR + CHAPTER TEN THE P.C. AND P.O. + CHAPTER ELEVEN EXPERIMENTS + CHAPTER TWELVE CAMP LAURENCE + CHAPTER THIRTEEN CASTLES IN THE AIR + CHAPTER FOURTEEN SECRETS + CHAPTER FIFTEEN A TELEGRAM + CHAPTER SIXTEEN LETTERS + CHAPTER SEVENTEEN LITTLE FAITHFUL + CHAPTER EIGHTEEN DARK DAYS + CHAPTER NINETEEN AMY’S WILL + CHAPTER TWENTY CONFIDENTIAL + CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE + CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO PLEASANT MEADOWS + CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION + + PART 2 + CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR GOSSIP + CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE THE FIRST WEDDING + CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS + CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN LITERARY LESSONS + CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES + CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CALLS + CHAPTER THIRTY CONSEQUENCES + CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT + CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO TENDER TROUBLES + CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE JO’S JOURNAL + CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR FRIEND + CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE HEARTACHE + CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX BETH’S SECRET + CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN NEW IMPRESSIONS + CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT ON THE SHELF + CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE LAZY LAURENCE + CHAPTER FORTY THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW + CHAPTER FORTY-ONE LEARNING TO FORGET + CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ALL ALONE + CHAPTER FORTY-THREE SURPRISES + CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR MY LORD AND LADY + CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE DAISY AND DEMI + CHAPTER FORTY-SIX UNDER THE UMBRELLA + CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN HARVEST TIME + + + + +PART 1 + + + + +CHAPTER ONE +PLAYING PILGRIMS + + +“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying +on the rug. + +“It’s so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old +dress. + +“I don’t think it’s fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty +things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an +injured sniff. + +“We’ve got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth contentedly +from her corner. + +The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the +cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, “We haven’t got +Father, and shall not have him for a long time.” She didn’t say +“perhaps never,” but each silently added it, thinking of Father far +away, where the fighting was. + +Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, “You know +the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was +because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we +ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in +the army. We can’t do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and +ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don’t,” and Meg shook her +head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. + +“But I don’t think the little we should spend would do any good. We’ve +each got a dollar, and the army wouldn’t be much helped by our giving +that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want +to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I’ve wanted it so long,” said +Jo, who was a bookworm. + +“I planned to spend mine in new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh, +which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder. + +“I shall get a nice box of Faber’s drawing pencils; I really need +them,” said Amy decidedly. + +“Mother didn’t say anything about our money, and she won’t wish us to +give up everything. Let’s each buy what we want, and have a little fun; +I’m sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo, examining the heels +of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner. + +“I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m +longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone +again. + +“You don’t have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you +like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps +you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you’re ready to +fly out the window or cry?” + +“It’s naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things +tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands +get so stiff, I can’t practice well at all.” And Beth looked at her +rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time. + +“I don’t believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy, “for you don’t +have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you +don’t know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your +father if he isn’t rich, and insult you when your nose isn’t nice.” + +“If you mean libel, I’d say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa +was a pickle bottle,” advised Jo, laughing. + +“I know what I mean, and you needn’t be statirical about it. It’s +proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary,” returned Amy, +with dignity. + +“Don’t peck at one another, children. Don’t you wish we had the money +Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we’d be, +if we had no worries!” said Meg, who could remember better times. + +“You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the +King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in +spite of their money.” + +“So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work, +we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.” + +“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy, with a reproving look at +the long figure stretched on the rug. + +Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to +whistle. + +“Don’t, Jo. It’s so boyish!” + +“That’s why I do it.” + +“I detest rude, unladylike girls!” + +“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!” + +“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with +such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the +“pecking” ended for that time. + +“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to +lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to leave off +boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn’t matter so +much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up +your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady.” + +“I’m not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I’ll wear it in two +tails till I’m twenty,” cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down +a chestnut mane. “I hate to think I’ve got to grow up, and be Miss +March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It’s bad +enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s games and work and +manners! I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And +it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with Papa. And +I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!” + +And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like +castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. + +“Poor Jo! It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. So you must try to be +contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us +girls,” said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the +dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its +touch. + +“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too particular +and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you’ll grow up an affected +little goose, if you don’t take care. I like your nice manners and +refined ways of speaking, when you don’t try to be elegant. But your +absurd words are as bad as Jo’s slang.” + +“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth, +ready to share the lecture. + +“You’re a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one +contradicted her, for the ‘Mouse’ was the pet of the family. + +As young readers like to know ‘how people look’, we will take this +moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat +knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly +without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable +room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a +good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, +chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a +pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. + +Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being +plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet +mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old +Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she +never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very +much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, +gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, +funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it +was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders +had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the +uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a +woman and didn’t like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, +was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy +manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom +disturbed. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility’, and the +name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of +her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. +Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own +opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow +hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying +herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters +of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. + +The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair +of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good +effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened +to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got +out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she +was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. + +“They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair.” + +“I thought I’d get her some with my dollar,” said Beth. + +“No, I shall!” cried Amy. + +“I’m the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I’m the man +of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for +he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone.” + +“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Beth, “let’s each get her something +for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.” + +“That’s like you, dear! What will we get?” exclaimed Jo. + +Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the +idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, “I shall give +her a nice pair of gloves.” + +“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo. + +“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth. + +“I’ll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won’t cost +much, so I’ll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy. + +“How will we give the things?” asked Meg. + +“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. +Don’t you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?” answered Jo. + +“I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair +with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the +presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was +dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles,” +said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same +time. + +“Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then +surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so +much to do about the play for Christmas night,” said Jo, marching up +and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air. + +“I don’t mean to act any more after this time. I’m getting too old for +such things,” observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about +‘dressing-up’ frolics. + +“You won’t stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown +with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best +actress we’ve got, and there’ll be an end of everything if you quit the +boards,” said Jo. “We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do +the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that.” + +“I can’t help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don’t choose to make +myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down +easily, I’ll drop. If I can’t, I shall fall into a chair and be +graceful. I don’t care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol,” returned +Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she +was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. + +“Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, +crying frantically, ‘Roderigo! Save me! Save me!’” and away went Jo, +with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. + +Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and +jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her “Ow!” was +more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo +gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her +bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. “It’s no use! Do the +best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don’t +blame me. Come on, Meg.” + +Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech +of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful +incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. +Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of +remorse and arsenic, with a wild, “Ha! Ha!” + +“It’s the best we’ve had yet,” said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and +rubbed his elbows. + +“I don’t see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You’re +a regular Shakespeare!” exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her +sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. + +“Not quite,” replied Jo modestly. “I do think _The Witches Curse, an +Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I’d like to try +_Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do +the killing part. ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?” muttered Jo, +rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous +tragedian do. + +“No, it’s the toasting fork, with Mother’s shoe on it instead of the +bread. Beth’s stage-struck!” cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a +general burst of laughter. + +“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, +and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a +‘can I help you’ look about her which was truly delightful. She was not +elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the +gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in +the world. + +“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, +getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn’t come home to +dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look +tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby.” + +While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things +off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy +to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The +girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own +way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, +dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth +trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy +gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded. + +As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly +happy face, “I’ve got a treat for you after supper.” + +A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth +clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up +her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!” + +“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through +the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving +wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls,” said Mrs. +March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. + +“Hurry and get done! Don’t stop to quirk your little finger and simper +over your plate, Amy,” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her +bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the +treat. + +Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood +over the delight to come, till the others were ready. + +“I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too +old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier,” said Meg +warmly. + +“Don’t I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan—what’s its name? Or a +nurse, so I could be near him and help him,” exclaimed Jo, with a +groan. + +“It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of +bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug,” sighed Amy. + +“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in +her voice. + +“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his +work faithfully as long as he can, and we won’t ask for him back a +minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter.” + +They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her +feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on +the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter +should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those +hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent +home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers +faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful +letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military +news, and only at the end did the writer’s heart over-flow with +fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. + +“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by +day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their +affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see +them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these +hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to +them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty +faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves +so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and +prouder than ever of my little women.” Everybody sniffed when they came +to that part. Jo wasn’t ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the +end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she +hid her face on her mother’s shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish +girl! But I’ll truly try to be better, so he mayn’t be disappointed in +me by-and-by.” + +“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to +work, but won’t any more, if I can help it.” + +“I’ll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman’ and not be +rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere +else,” said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much +harder task than facing a rebel or two down South. + +Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and +began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that +lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all +that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy +coming home. + +Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo’s words, by saying in her +cheery voice, “Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress +when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me +tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks +and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the +cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop, +where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a +Celestial City.” + +“What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and +passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were,” said Jo. + +“I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,” +said Meg. + +“I don’t remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar +and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the +top. If I wasn’t too old for such things, I’d rather like to play it +over again,” said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things +at the mature age of twelve. + +“We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are +playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our +road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the +guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace +which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you +begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can +get before Father comes home.” + +“Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?” asked Amy, who was a very +literal young lady. + +“Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather +think she hasn’t got any,” said her mother. + +“Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice +pianos, and being afraid of people.” + +Beth’s bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but +nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. + +“Let us do it,” said Meg thoughtfully. “It is only another name for +trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to +be good, it’s hard work and we forget, and don’t do our best.” + +“We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled +us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of +directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?” asked Jo, +delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull +task of doing her duty. + +“Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your +guidebook,” replied Mrs. March. + +They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then +out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the +girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but +tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo’s plan of dividing the long +seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, +and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they +talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through +them. + +At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. +No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had +a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant +accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a +flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a +cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always +coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the +most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could +lisp... + +Crinkle, crinkle, ’ittle ’tar, + + +and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. +The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the +house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same +cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar +lullaby. + + + + +CHAPTER TWO +A MERRY CHRISTMAS + + +Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No +stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much +disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down +because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her +mother’s promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a +little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that +beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it +was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke +Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and bade her see what was under her +pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, +and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present +very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and +find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all +sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with +the coming day. + +In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, +which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved +her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently +given. + +“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her +to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants +us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We +used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this +war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as +you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a +little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good +and help me through the day.” + +Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round +her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression +so seldom seen on her restless face. + +“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with +the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,” +whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her +sisters’ example. + +“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were very still +while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to +touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. + +“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for +their gifts, half an hour later. + +“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma +went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman +for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah, +who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by +them all more as a friend than a servant. + +“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything +ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a +basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper +time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little +flask did not appear. + +“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on +it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take +the first stiffness off the new army slippers. + +“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed +them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly +at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. + +“Bless the child! She’s gone and put ‘Mother’ on them instead of ‘M. +March’. How funny!” cried Jo, taking one up. + +“Isn’t that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg’s +initials are M.M., and I don’t want anyone to use these but Marmee,” +said Beth, looking troubled. + +“It’s all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for +no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know,” +said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. + +“There’s Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed +and steps sounded in the hall. + +Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters +all waiting for her. + +“Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?” asked Meg, +surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so +early. + +“Don’t laugh at me, Jo! I didn’t mean anyone should know till the time +came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I +gave all my money to get it, and I’m truly trying not to be selfish any +more.” + +As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap +one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget +herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her ‘a +trump’, while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to +ornament the stately bottle. + +“You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about +being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the +minute I was up, and I’m so glad, for mine is the handsomest now.” + +Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the +girls to the table, eager for breakfast. + +“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We +read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus. + +“Merry Christmas, little daughters! I’m glad you began at once, and +hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. +Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. +Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they +have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy +came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you +give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?” + +They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a +minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, “I’m +so glad you came before we began!” + +“May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?” asked +Beth eagerly. + +“I shall take the cream and the muffings,” added Amy, heroically giving +up the article she most liked. + +Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one +big plate. + +“I thought you’d do it,” said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. “You +shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and +milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime.” + +They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was +early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and +no one laughed at the queer party. + +A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, +ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, +hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. + +How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. + +“Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!” said the poor woman, +crying for joy. + +“Funny angels in hoods and mittens,” said Jo, and set them to laughing. + +In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work +there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the +broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the +mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while +she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The +girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and +fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to +understand the funny broken English. + +“Das ist gut!” “Die Engel-kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate +and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had +never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, +especially Jo, who had been considered a ‘Sancho’ ever since she was +born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn’t get any of +it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were +not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls +who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and +milk on Christmas morning. + +“That’s loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it,” said +Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs +collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. + +Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in +the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white +chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave +quite an elegant air to the table. + +“She’s coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for +Marmee!” cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to +the seat of honor. + +Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted +escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, +and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the +little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a +new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy’s +cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were +pronounced a perfect fit. + +There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the +simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at +the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to +work. + +The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of +the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being +still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to +afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their +wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made +whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, +pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats +covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering +with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the +same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of +preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many +innocent revels. + +No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart’s +content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots +given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, +an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some +picture, were Jo’s chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The +smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors +to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit +for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, +whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage +besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless +amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been +idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. + +On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the +dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a +most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling +and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an +occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the +excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew +apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began. + +“A gloomy wood,” according to the one playbill, was represented by a +few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the +distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus +for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black +pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the +glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued +from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed +for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in +with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, +mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much +agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, +singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing +resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo’s +voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were +very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for +breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he +stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, +“What ho, minion! I need thee!” + +Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and +black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded +a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in +a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the +spirit who would bring the love philter. + +Hither, hither, from thy home, +Airy sprite, I bid thee come! +Born of roses, fed on dew, +Charms and potions canst thou brew? +Bring me here, with elfin speed, +The fragrant philter which I need. +Make it sweet and swift and strong, +Spirit, answer now my song! + + +A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave +appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden +hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang... + +Hither I come, +From my airy home, +Afar in the silver moon. +Take the magic spell, +And use it well, +Or its power will vanish soon! + + +And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch’s feet, the spirit +vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a +lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having +croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a +mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his +boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had +killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and +intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain +fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the +merits of the play. + +A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but +when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been +got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose +to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it, +and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver +dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed +cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. +Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. +Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came +the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with +five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. +Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo’s +shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when “Alas! Alas for +Zara!” she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower +tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy +lovers in the ruins. + +A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the +wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, “I told you so! I told you +so!” With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed +in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside... + +“Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!” and, ordering Roderigo up, +banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly +shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old +gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She +also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons +of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them +away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech +he ought to have made. + +Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to +free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees +him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little +servant, “Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I +shall come anon.” The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, +and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. +Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the +cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty +after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal +of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him +what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody. + +This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have +thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair +rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before +the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose +singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the +performance put together. + +Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing +himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as +the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, +informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if +he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of +rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his +lady love. + +Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He +wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it, and after a +touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands +her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and +gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear +away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter +and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter +informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair +and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag +is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage +till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the +stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, +and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s +blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace. + +Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the +cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and +extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to +the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless +with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, +with “Mrs. March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to +supper.” + +This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, +they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee +to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was +unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream, +actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and +distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great +bouquets of hot house flowers. + +It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and +then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely. + +“Is it fairies?” asked Amy. + +“Santa Claus,” said Beth. + +“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray +beard and white eyebrows. + +“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a +sudden inspiration. + +“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March. + +“The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing +into his head? We don’t know him!” exclaimed Meg. + +“Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an +odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, +and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would +allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending +them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you +have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk +breakfast.” + +“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow, +and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us +but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when +we pass,” said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt +out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction. + +“You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?” +asked one of the girls. “My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says +he’s very proud and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps +his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, +and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he +didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us +girls.” + +“Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the +fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, +when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, +for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,” said Jo decidedly. + +“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I’ve no +objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He +brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had +been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went +away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own.” + +“It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!” laughed Jo, looking at her boots. +“But we’ll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he’ll +help act. Wouldn’t that be jolly?” + +“I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!” And Meg +examined her flowers with great interest. + +“They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,” said Mrs. March, +smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. + +Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, “I wish I could send my +bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as +we are.” + + + + +CHAPTER THREE +THE LAURENCE BOY + + +“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. + +“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found +her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped +up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This +was Jo’s favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a +dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a +pet rat who lived near by and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg +appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her +cheeks and waited to hear the news. + +“Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner +for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then +proceeding to read it with girlish delight. + +“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at +a little dance on New Year’s Eve.’ Marmee is willing we should go, now +what shall we wear?” + +“What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our +poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo with her +mouth full. + +“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I’m +eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait.” + +“I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. +Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. +Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can’t take any out.” + +“You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The +front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee +will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and +my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.” + +“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I +shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much +about dress. + +“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are +more important than anything else. You can’t dance without them, and if +you don’t I should be so mortified.” + +“Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no +fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.” + +“You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are +so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn’t +get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?” + +“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how +stained they are. That’s all I can do. No! I’ll tell you how we can +manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don’t you see?” + +“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove +dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. + +“Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!” cried Jo, taking +up her book. + +“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely. +Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher +Columbus!’ will you?” + +“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be as prim as I can and not get into any +scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me +finish this splendid story.” + +So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing +blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her +story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. + +On New Year’s Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls +played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the +all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the +toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing +and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the +house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch +the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. + +“Ought they to smoke like that?” asked Beth from her perch on the bed. + +“It’s the dampness drying,” replied Jo. + +“What a queer smell! It’s like burned feathers,” observed Amy, +smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. + +“There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little +ringlets,” said Jo, putting down the tongs. + +She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the +hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of +little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. + +“Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I’m spoiled! I can’t go! My hair, oh, +my hair!” wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her +forehead. + +“Just my luck! You shouldn’t have asked me to do it. I always spoil +everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made +a mess,” groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with +tears of regret. + +“It isn’t spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends +come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. +I’ve seen many girls do it so,” said Amy consolingly. + +“Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,” +cried Meg petulantly. + +“So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out +again,” said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. + +After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the +united exertions of the entire family Jo’s hair was got up and her +dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg’s in silvery +drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in +maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white +chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light +glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite +easy and fine”. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt +her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed +stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, +dear me, let us be elegant or die. + +“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went +daintily down the walk. “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven +when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice +cried from a window... + +“Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?” + +“Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,” cried Jo, adding +with a laugh as they went on, “I do believe Marmee would ask that if we +were all running away from an earthquake.” + +“It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real +lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,” replied +Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own. + +“Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash +right? And does my hair look very bad?” said Meg, as she turned from +the glass in Mrs. Gardiner’s dressing room after a prolonged prink. + +“I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind +me by a wink, will you?” returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and +her head a hasty brush. + +“No, winking isn’t ladylike. I’ll lift my eyebrows if any thing is +wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, +and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to +anyone. It isn’t the thing.” + +“How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music +gay?” + +Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to +parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to +them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed +them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was +at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or +girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, +and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a +dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the +room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the +joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows +went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to +her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone. +She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth +would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing +began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so +briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered +smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and +fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, +intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another +bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell +behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’. + +“Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to +back out as speedily as she had bounced in. + +But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little +startled, “Don’t mind me, stay if you like.” + +“Shan’t I disturb you?” + +“Not a bit. I only came here because I don’t know many people and felt +rather strange at first, you know.” + +“So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.” + +The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to +be polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you +before. You live near us, don’t you?” + +“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim +manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about +cricket when he brought the cat home. + +That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her +heartiest way, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas +present.” + +“Grandpa sent it.” + +“But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?” + +“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy, trying to look sober +while his black eyes shone with fun. + +“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I’m only +Jo,” returned the young lady. + +“I’m not Mr. Laurence, I’m only Laurie.” + +“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.” + +“My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called +me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.” + +“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo +instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?” + +“I thrashed ’em.” + +“I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And +Jo resigned herself with a sigh. + +“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he +thought the name suited her. + +“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is +lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on +people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and +let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?” + +“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t +been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.” + +“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people +describe their travels.” + +Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin, but Jo’s eager questions +soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, +where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, +and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their +teachers. + +“Don’t I wish I’d been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?” + +“We spent last winter there.” + +“Can you talk French?” + +“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.” + +“Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.” + +“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?” + +“How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, ‘Who is the young lady +in the pretty slippers’, didn’t you?” + +“Oui, mademoiselle.” + +“It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is +pretty?” + +“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and +quiet, and dances like a lady.” + +Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and +stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted +till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore +off, for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and +Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody +lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than +ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him +to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys +were almost unknown creatures to them. + +“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine +teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, +and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?” + +It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask, but she checked herself in +time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way. + +“I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at +your books, no, I mean studying hard.” And Jo blushed at the dreadful +‘pegging’ which had escaped her. + +Laurie smiled but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. “Not +for a year or two. I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.” + +“Aren’t you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she +had imagined seventeen already. + +“Sixteen, next month.” + +“How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.” + +“I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the +way fellows do either, in this country.” + +“What do you like?” + +“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.” + +Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows +looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject +by saying, as her foot kept time, “That’s a splendid polka! Why don’t +you go and try it?” + +“If you will come too,” he answered, with a gallant little bow. + +“I can’t, for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because...” There Jo stopped, and +looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. + +“Because, what?” + +“You won’t tell?” + +“Never!” + +“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my +frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it’s nicely mended, it +shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may +laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.” + +But Laurie didn’t laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the +expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind +that. I’ll tell you how we can manage. There’s a long hall out there, +and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.” + +Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when +she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was +empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught +her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and +spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get +their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ +festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She +beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she +found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. + +“I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad +wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever +going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro in pain. + +“I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I +don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all +night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. + +“I can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I +can’t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it’s a +long way to the stable, and no one to send.” + +“I’ll go.” + +“No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for +the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest +till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.” + +“I’ll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo, looking relieved as the idea +occurred to her. + +“Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these +slippers with our things. I can’t dance anymore, but as soon as supper +is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes.” + +“They are going out to supper now. I’ll stay with you. I’d rather.” + +“No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired I can’t +stir.” + +So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away +to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet, +and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a +little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the +coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her +dress as bad as the back. + +“Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!” exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg’s +glove by scrubbing her gown with it. + +“Can I help you?” said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a +full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. + +“I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone +shook me, and here I am in a nice state,” answered Jo, glancing +dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove. + +“Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to +your sister?” + +“Oh, thank you! I’ll show you where she is. I don’t offer to take it +myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did.” + +Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a +little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo, +and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a ‘nice +boy’. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in +the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young +people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot +and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an +exclamation of pain. + +“Hush! Don’t say anything,” she whispered, adding aloud, “It’s nothing. +I turned my foot a little, that’s all,” and limped upstairs to put her +things on. + +Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she +decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down +and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It +happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood +and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she +said, came up and offered his grandfather’s carriage, which had just +come for him, he said. + +“It’s so early! You can’t mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved +but hesitating to accept the offer. + +“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It’s all +on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.” + +That settled it, and telling him of Meg’s mishap, Jo gratefully +accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah +hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they +rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and +elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the +girls talked over their party in freedom. + +“I had a capital time. Did you?” asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and +making herself comfortable. + +“Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie’s friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy +to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. +She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be +perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go,” answered Meg, cheering +up at the thought. + +“I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he +nice?” + +“Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I +had a delicious redowa with him.” + +“He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie +and I couldn’t help laughing. Did you hear us?” + +“No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden +away there?” + +Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at +home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to +disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little +nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out... + +“Tell about the party! Tell about the party!” + +With what Meg called ‘a great want of manners’ Jo had saved some +bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the +most thrilling events of the evening. + +“I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home +from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to +wait on me,” said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed +her hair. + +“I don’t believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we +do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight +slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them.” +And I think Jo was quite right. + + + + +CHAPTER FOUR +BURDENS + + +“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,” +sighed Meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over, +the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the +task she never liked. + +“I wish it was Christmas or New Year’s all the time. Wouldn’t it be +fun?” answered Jo, yawning dismally. + +“We shouldn’t enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does +seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, +and drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It’s like other +people, you know, and I always envy girls who do such things, I’m so +fond of luxury,” said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns +was the least shabby. + +“Well, we can’t have it, so don’t let us grumble but shoulder our +bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I’m sure Aunt +March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I’ve +learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get +so light that I shan’t mind her.” + +This idea tickled Jo’s fancy and put her in good spirits, but Meg +didn’t brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, +seemed heavier than ever. She had not heart enough even to make herself +pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair +in the most becoming way. + +“Where’s the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross +midgets, and no one cares whether I’m pretty or not?” she muttered, +shutting her drawer with a jerk. “I shall have to toil and moil all my +days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly +and sour, because I’m poor and can’t enjoy my life as other girls do. +It’s a shame!” + +So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn’t at all agreeable +at breakfast time. Everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to +croak. + +Beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with +the cat and three kittens. Amy was fretting because her lessons were +not learned, and she couldn’t find her rubbers. Jo would whistle and +make a great racket getting ready. + +Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at +once, and Hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn’t suit her. + +“There never was such a cross family!” cried Jo, losing her temper when +she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon +her hat. + +“You’re the crossest person in it!” returned Amy, washing out the sum +that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate. + +“Beth, if you don’t keep these horrid cats down cellar I’ll have them +drowned,” exclaimed Meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten +which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of +reach. + +Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed because she +couldn’t remember how much nine times twelve was. + +“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early +mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry,” cried Mrs. March, +crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter. + +There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two +hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again. These turnovers were +an institution, and the girls called them ‘muffs’, for they had no +others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold +mornings. + +Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she +might be, for the walk was long and bleak. The poor things got no other +lunch and were seldom home before two. + +“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. +We are a set of rascals this morning, but we’ll come home regular +angels. Now then, Meg!” And Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims +were not setting out as they ought to do. + +They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was +always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them. +Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without +that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that +motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine. + +“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would +serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never +seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and +bitter wind. + +“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the depths of +the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the +world. + +“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo, catching +her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away +altogether. + +“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a +wretch and I don’t choose to be called so.” + +“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can’t +sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make +my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and +high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.” + +“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt +better in spite of herself. + +“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be +dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can +always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but +come home jolly, there’s a dear.” + +Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted +for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm +turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather, +hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth. + +When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate +friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something +toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin +too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their +parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will +which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last. + +Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her +small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief +trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others +because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of +ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be +envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl +should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a +happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the +children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent +glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about +theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds, +and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to +her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel +bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know +how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy. + +Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active +person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt +one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because +her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had +lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but +the unworldly Marches only said... + +“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will +keep together and be happy in one another.” + +The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet +Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners +struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a +companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place +since nothing better appeared and, to every one’s surprise, got on +remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional +tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it +longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to +come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her +heart she rather liked the peppery old lady. + +I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, +which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo +remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads +and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer +pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever +he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring +down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of +all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked, +made the library a region of bliss to her. + +The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo +hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair, +devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular +bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as +she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a +song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice +called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to +wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour +together. + +Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had +no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found +her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and +ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless +spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series +of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training +she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed, and the thought +that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite +of the perpetual “Josy-phine!” + +Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she +suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home +with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to +devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went +faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a +housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and +comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be +loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little +world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy +bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for +Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one +whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them +in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her +because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the +more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm +dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words +or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of +the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed +with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity +had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck +in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and +taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat +little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these +deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to +this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that +dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they +laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out +to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and +never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering +tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.” + +Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but +a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said, +because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She +loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so +patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if +someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, +however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that +wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little +lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and +day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some +time, if I’m good.” + +There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners +till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the +sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and +the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow +behind. + +If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she +would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had +accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the +fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor +‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world +could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, +and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a +Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console +herself. + +“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for +drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing +fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her +teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her +slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps +on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering +out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as +well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of +deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being +good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. +Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her +accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, +crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of +the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we +did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were +considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls. + +Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her +small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, +however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s +clothes. Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy +suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, +unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was +good, well made, and little worn, but Amy’s artistic eyes were much +afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull +purple with yellow dots and no trimming. + +“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is that +Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria +Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful, for sometimes she +is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school. +When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my +flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it.” + +Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of +opposites Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her +thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister Beth unconsciously +exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls +were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger +sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, ‘playing +mother’ they called it, and put their sisters in the places of +discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women. + +“Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m +really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together +that evening. + +“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll +tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “I was +reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for +Aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like +fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy, and before she +began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by +opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.” + +“I wish I could, and be done with it,” said I, trying not to be saucy. + +“Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and +think them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never +finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a +top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the _Vicar of Wakefield_ out of my pocket, +and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I’d just got to +where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out +loud. Aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me +to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy +and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though +she only said... + +“‘I don’t understand what it’s all about. Go back and begin it, +child.’” + +“Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could. +Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly, +‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am. Shan’t I stop now?’” + +“She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave +me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, ‘Finish +the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss’.” + +“Did she own she liked it?” asked Meg. + +“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest, and when I ran back +after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar +that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall because of +the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have if only she +chose! I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich +people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think,” added Jo. + +“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t +funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came +home. At the Kings’ today I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the +children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and +Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking +very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed +me, so I shouldn’t see how red and swollen their eyes were. I didn’t +ask any questions, of course, but I felt so sorry for them and was +rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace +the family.” + +“I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than +anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her +experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school +today with a lovely red carnelian ring. I wanted it dreadfully, and +wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr. +Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies, +my eye is upon you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We +were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he +ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright, +but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the +ear—the ear! Just fancy how horrid!—and led her to the recitation +platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so +everyone could see.” + +“Didn’t the girls laugh at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished the +scrape. + +“Laugh? Not one! They sat still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know +she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian +rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, never should +have got over such a agonizing mortification.” And Amy went on with her +work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance +of two long words in a breath. + +“I saw something I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at +dinner, but I forgot,” said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in +order as she talked. “When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr. +Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind +the fish barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter the fish-man. A poor +woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would +let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any +dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr. +Cutter was in a hurry and said ‘No’, rather crossly, so she was going +away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish +with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her. She was so +glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him +over and over. He told her to ‘go along and cook it’, and she hurried +off, so happy! Wasn’t it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, +hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence’s bed in heaven +would be ‘aisy’.” + +When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one, +and after a moments thought, she said soberly, “As I sat cutting out +blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, I felt very anxious about +Father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything +happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying +till an old man came in with an order for some clothes. He sat down +near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and +anxious. + +“‘Have you sons in the army?’ I asked, for the note he brought was not +to me.” + +“Yes, ma’am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and +I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital.’ he +answered quietly.” + +“‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said, feeling +respect now, instead of pity.” + +“‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use. +As I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.’” + +“He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give +his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man and thought it +too much, while he gave four without grudging them. I had all my girls +to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say +good-by to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy thinking of my +blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and +thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.” + +“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it, like this. I like +to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,” +said Jo, after a minute’s silence. + +Mrs. March smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this +little audience for many years, and knew how to please them. + +“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and +drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and +parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here +the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew +diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good and made many +excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were +constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,’ or ‘If we could only do +that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things +they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they +could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel +discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’” (Here Jo +looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing +that the story was not done yet.) + +“Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were +surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money +couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses, another +that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her +youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old +lady who couldn’t enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it +was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and +the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good +behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings +already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken +away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never +disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.” + +“Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories +against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg. + +“I like that kind of sermon. It’s the sort Father used to tell us,” +said Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion. + +“I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more +careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,” +said Amy morally. + +“We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget it. If we do so, you just +say to us, as old Chloe did in _Uncle Tom_, ‘Tink ob yer marcies, +chillen!’ ‘Tink ob yer marcies!’” added Jo, who could not, for the life +of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though +she took it to heart as much as any of them. + + + + +CHAPTER FIVE +BEING NEIGHBORLY + + +“What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy +afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber +boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the +other. + +“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her +eyes. + +“I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! +It’s cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the +fire, as I do,” said Meg with a shiver. + +“Never take advice! Can’t keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, +I don’t like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I’m going to +find some.” + +Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig +paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she +soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the +sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden +separated the Marches’ house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a +suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and +lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two +estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and +shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the +flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately +stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, +from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and +the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. + +Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children +frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and +few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. + +To Jo’s lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted +palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had +long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence +boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to +begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had +planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen +lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied +a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their +garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. + +“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His +grandpa does not know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all +alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young +and lively. I’ve a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman +so!” + +The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always +scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of ‘going over’ +was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to +try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then +sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took +a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out +of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a +thin hand at the upper window. + +“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal +day. It’s a shame! I’ll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and +then say a kind word to him.” + +Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a +face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes +brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and +flourished her broom as she called out... + +“How do you do? Are you sick?” + +Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven... + +“Better, thank you. I’ve had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.” + +“I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?” + +“Nothing. It’s dull as tombs up here.” + +“Don’t you read?” + +“Not much. They won’t let me.” + +“Can’t somebody read to you?” + +“Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don’t interest him, and I hate to +ask Brooke all the time.” + +“Have someone come and see you then.” + +“There isn’t anyone I’d like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head +is weak.” + +“Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse you? Girls are quiet +and like to play nurse.” + +“Don’t know any.” + +“You know us,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped. + +“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie. + +“I’m not quiet and nice, but I’ll come, if Mother will let me. I’ll go +ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.” + +With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, +wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of +excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, +for as Mrs. March said, he was ‘a little gentleman’, and did honor to +the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color, +and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen +servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then +a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie’, and a surprised-looking +servant came running up to announce a young lady. + +“All right, show her up, it’s Miss Jo,” said Laurie, going to the door +of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite +at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth’s three kittens +in the other. + +“Here I am, bag and baggage,” she said briskly. “Mother sent her love, +and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring +some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her +cats would be comforting. I knew you’d laugh at them, but I couldn’t +refuse, she was so anxious to do something.” + +It so happened that Beth’s funny loan was just the thing, for in +laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew +sociable at once. + +“That looks too pretty to eat,” he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo +uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland +of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium. + +“It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. +Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It’s so simple you can eat +it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. +What a cozy room this is!” + +“It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don’t +know how to make them mind. It worries me though.” + +“I’ll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth +brushed, so—and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so—and the +books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the +light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you’re fixed.” + +And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things +into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched +her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he +sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully... + +“How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the big +chair and let me do something to amuse my company.” + +“No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?” and Jo looked +affectionately toward some inviting books near by. + +“Thank you! I’ve read all those, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather +talk,” answered Laurie. + +“Not a bit. I’ll talk all day if you’ll only set me going. Beth says I +never know when to stop.” + +“Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes +out with a little basket?” asked Laurie with interest. + +“Yes, that’s Beth. She’s my girl, and a regular good one she is, too.” + +“The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?” + +“How did you find that out?” + +Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, “Why, you see I often hear you +calling to one another, and when I’m alone up here, I can’t help +looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good +times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to +put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the +lamps are lighted, it’s like looking at a picture to see the fire, and +you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite, +and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can’t help watching it. I +haven’t got any mother, you know.” And Laurie poked the fire to hide a +little twitching of the lips that he could not control. + +The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo’s warm heart. +She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, +and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was +sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, +she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and +her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said... + +“We’ll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look +as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you’d +come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she’d do you heaps of +good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would +dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, +and we’d have jolly times. Wouldn’t your grandpa let you?” + +“I think he would, if your mother asked him. He’s very kind, though he +does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he’s +afraid I might be a bother to strangers,” began Laurie, brightening +more and more. + +“We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn’t think you’d be +a bother. We want to know you, and I’ve been trying to do it this ever +so long. We haven’t been here a great while, you know, but we have got +acquainted with all our neighbors but you.” + +“You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn’t mind much what +happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn’t stay here, you know, and +I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as +I can.” + +“That’s bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you +are asked, then you’ll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to +go to. Never mind being bashful. It won’t last long if you keep going.” + +Laurie turned red again, but wasn’t offended at being accused of +bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible +not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. + +“Do you like your school?” asked the boy, changing the subject, after a +little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about +her, well pleased. + +“Don’t go to school, I’m a businessman—girl, I mean. I go to wait on my +great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too,” answered Jo. + +Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just +in time that it wasn’t manners to make too many inquiries into people’s +affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. + +Jo liked his good breeding, and didn’t mind having a laugh at Aunt +March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, +her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where +she reveled. + +Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old +gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine +speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy +lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid +popped her head in to see what was the matter. + +“Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please,” he said, taking his +face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment. + +Much elated with her success, Jo did ‘tell on’, all about their plays +and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting +events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to +talking about books, and to Jo’s delight, she found that Laurie loved +them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. + +“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, +so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up. + +“I’m not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a toss of the head. + +“I don’t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much +admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to +be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his +moods. + +The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way +from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her +fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her +hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was +lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting +little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow +chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open +fireplace with quaint tiles all round it. + +“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair +and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. “Theodore +Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added +impressively. + +“A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head as he +perched on a table opposite. + +Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with +alarm, “Mercy me! It’s your grandpa!” + +“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” +returned the boy, looking wicked. + +“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don’t know why I should +be. Marmee said I might come, and I don’t think you’re any the worse +for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the +door. + +“I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I’m only +afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I +couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully. + +“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke. + +“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” +said Laurie. + +“Don’t mind me. I’m happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo. + +Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was +standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door +opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, “I’m sure now +that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s got kind eyes, though his +mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. +He isn’t as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.” + +“Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her +great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. + +Poor Jo blushed till she couldn’t blush any redder, and her heart began +to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a +minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly, +and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out +of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living +eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones, +and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good +deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said +abruptly, after the dreadful pause, “So you’re not afraid of me, hey?” + +“Not much, sir.” + +“And you don’t think me as handsome as your grandfather?” + +“Not quite, sir.” + +“And I’ve got a tremendous will, have I?” + +“I only said I thought so.” + +“But you like me in spite of it?” + +“Yes, I do, sir.” + +That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook +hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her +face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, “You’ve +got your grandfather’s spirit, if you haven’t his face. He was a fine +man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and +I was proud to be his friend.” + +“Thank you, sir,” And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it +suited her exactly. + +“What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?” was the next +question, sharply put. + +“Only trying to be neighborly, sir.” And Jo told how her visit came +about. + +“You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?” + +“Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good +perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, +for we don’t forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,” said +Jo eagerly. + +“Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy’s affair. How is the poor woman?” + +“Doing nicely, sir.” And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told +all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends +than they were. + +“Just her father’s way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother +some fine day. Tell her so. There’s the tea bell, we have it early on +the boy’s account. Come down and go on being neighborly.” + +“If you’d like to have me, sir.” + +“Shouldn’t ask you, if I didn’t.” And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm +with old-fashioned courtesy. + +“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away, +while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the +story at home. + +“Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?” said the old +gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a +start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his +redoubtable grandfather. + +“I didn’t know you’d come, sir,” he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant +little glance. + +“That’s evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, +sir, and behave like a gentleman.” And having pulled the boy’s hair by +way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a +series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an +explosion of laughter from Jo. + +The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, +but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old +friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was +color, light, and life in the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner, +and genuine merriment in his laugh. + +“She’s right, the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little girls can +do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked +Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand +the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. + +If the Laurences had been what Jo called ‘prim and poky’, she would not +have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. +But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good +impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had +something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, +which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to +Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on +either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful +vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the +finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, +with the happy look Jo liked to see, “Please give these to your mother, +and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.” + +They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing +room, but Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which +stood open. + +“Do you play?” she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful +expression. + +“Sometimes,” he answered modestly. + +“Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth.” + +“Won’t you first?” + +“Don’t know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.” + +So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in +heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the ‘Laurence’ boy +increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn’t put on +any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only +praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his +rescue. + +“That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not +good for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in +more important things. Going? well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope +you’ll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.” + +He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. +When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something +amiss. He shook his head. + +“No, it was me. He doesn’t like to hear me play.” + +“Why not?” + +“I’ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can’t.” + +“No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take +care of yourself, won’t you?” + +“Yes, but you will come again, I hope?” + +“If you promise to come and see us after you are well.” + +“I will.” + +“Good night, Laurie!” + +“Good night, Jo, good night!” + +When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt +inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very +attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March +wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten +him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand +piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues. + +“Mother, why didn’t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?” asked Jo, +who was of an inquiring disposition. + +“I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie’s father, +married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who +is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he +did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both +died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him +home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and +the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie +comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I +dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At +any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he +‘glowered’ as Jo said.” + +“Dear me, how romantic!” exclaimed Meg. + +“How silly!” said Jo. “Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not +plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.” + +“That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I +suppose. Italians are always nice,” said Meg, who was a little +sentimental. + +“What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to +him, hardly,” cried Jo, who was not sentimental. + +“I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to +behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent +him.” + +“He meant the blanc mange, I suppose.” + +“How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course.” + +“Did he?” And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her +before. + +“I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get it,” +said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. + +“I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be silly +and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy and I like him, and I won’t have +any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We’ll all be +good to him because he hasn’t got any mother, and he may come over and +see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?” + +“Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will +remember that children should be children as long as they can.” + +“I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens yet,” observed +Amy. “What do you say, Beth?” + +“I was thinking about our ‘_Pilgrim’s Progress_’,” answered Beth, who +had not heard a word. “How we got out of the Slough and through the +Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, +and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going +to be our Palace Beautiful.” + +“We have got to get by the lions first,” said Jo, as if she rather +liked the prospect. + + + + +CHAPTER SIX +BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL + + +The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time +for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old +Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said +something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old +times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid +Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich, +for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. +But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, +and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March’s +motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in +that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride and +interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the +greater. + +All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new +friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and +he privately informed his tutor that “the Marches were regularly +splendid girls.” With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the +solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found +something very charming in the innocent companionship of these +simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was +quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy, +lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired +of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was +obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for Laurie was always +playing truant and running over to the Marches’. + +“Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,” said +the old gentleman. “The good lady next door says he is studying too +hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is +right, and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his +grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can’t +get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is +doing more for him than we can.” + +What good times they had, to be sure. Such plays and tableaux, such +sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old +parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. +Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in +bouquets, Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed +the old gentleman with her criticisms, Amy copied pictures and enjoyed +beauty to her heart’s content, and Laurie played ‘lord of the manor’ in +the most delightful style. + +But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up +courage to go to the ‘Mansion of Bliss’, as Meg called it. She went +once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, +stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “Hey!” so +loud, that he frightened her so much her ‘feet chattered on the floor’, +she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never +go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or +enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. +Laurence’s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. +During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation +to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine +organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found +it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and +nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped and +stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with +excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her +than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie’s +lessons and teachers. And presently, as if the idea had just occurred +to him, he said to Mrs. March... + +“The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was getting +too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn’t some of +your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to +keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?” + +Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to +keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and +the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her +breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with +an odd little nod and smile... + +“They needn’t see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time. For I’m +shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a +great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine +o’clock.” + +Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that +last arrangement left nothing to be desired. “Please, tell the young +ladies what I say, and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind.” +Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a +face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way... + +“Oh sir, they do care, very very much!” + +“Are you the musical girl?” he asked, without any startling “Hey!” as +he looked down at her very kindly. + +“I’m Beth. I love it dearly, and I’ll come, if you are quite sure +nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be rude, +and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. + +“Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and drum +away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.” + +“How kind you are, sir!” + +Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was +not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she +had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The +old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping +down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard... + +“I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my +dear! Good day, madam.” And away he went, in a great hurry. + +Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the +glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home. +How blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her +because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in +her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out +of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the +side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing +room where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, +easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent +stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great +instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything +else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was +like the voice of a beloved friend. + +She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no +appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state +of beatitude. + +After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly +every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit +that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his +study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw +Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never +suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the +rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her +about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things +that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, +what isn’t always the case, that her granted wish was all she had +hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing +that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both. + +“Mother, I’m going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so +kind to me, I must thank him, and I don’t know any other way. Can I do +it?” asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his. + +“Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking +him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making +up,” replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth’s +requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself. + +After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, +the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet +cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very +appropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with +occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman, +and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote +a short, simple note, and with Laurie’s help, got them smuggled onto +the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up. + +When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. +All day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement +arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety +friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an +errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As +she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads +popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, +several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed... + +“Here’s a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!” + +“Oh, Beth, he’s sent you...” began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly +energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down +the window. + +Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door her sisters +seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all +pointing and all saying at once, “Look there! Look there!” Beth did +look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a +little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed +like a sign board to “Miss Elizabeth March.” + +“For me?” gasped Beth, holding onto Jo and feeling as if she should +tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether. + +“Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn’t it splendid of him? Don’t you +think he’s the dearest old man in the world? Here’s the key in the +letter. We didn’t open it, but we are dying to know what he says,” +cried Jo, hugging her sister and offering the note. + +“You read it! I can’t, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!” and Beth +hid her face in Jo’s apron, quite upset by her present. + +Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw +were... + +“Miss March: “Dear Madam—” + +“How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!” said Amy, +who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant. + +“‘I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any +that suited me so well as yours,’” continues Jo. “‘Heart’s-ease is my +favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver. I +like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow ‘the old gentleman’ to +send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he +lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain “‘Your grateful +friend and humble servant, ‘JAMES LAURENCE’.” + +“There, Beth, that’s an honor to be proud of, I’m sure! Laurie told me +how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept +all her little things carefully. Just think, he’s given you her piano. +That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music,” said Jo, trying +to soothe Beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever +been before. + +“See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk, +puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and +stool, all complete,” added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying +its beauties. + +“‘Your humble servant, James Laurence’. Only think of his writing that +to you. I’ll tell the girls. They’ll think it’s splendid,” said Amy, +much impressed by the note. + +“Try it, honey. Let’s hear the sound of the baby pianny,” said Hannah, +who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows. + +So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano +ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie +order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the +happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly +touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright +pedals. + +“You’ll have to go and thank him,” said Jo, by way of a joke, for the +idea of the child’s really going never entered her head. + +“Yes, I mean to. I guess I’ll go now, before I get frightened thinking +about it.” And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth +walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the +Laurences’ door. + +“Well, I wish I may die if it ain’t the queerest thing I ever see! The +pianny has turned her head! She’d never have gone in her right mind,” +cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite +speechless by the miracle. + +They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did +afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study +door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice +called out, “come in!” she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who +looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a +small quaver in her voice, “I came to thank you, sir, for...” But she +didn’t finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech +and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she +put both arms round his neck and kissed him. + +If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman +wouldn’t have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he +liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding +little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on +his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as +if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to +fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if +she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude +can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own +gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back +again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old +gentleman, as he was. + +When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of +expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her +surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, “Well, I do believe +the world is coming to an end.” + + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN +AMY’S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION + + +“That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn’t he?” said Amy one day, as Laurie +clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed. + +“How dare you say so, when he’s got both his eyes? And very handsome +ones they are, too,” cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about +her friend. + +“I didn’t say anything about his eyes, and I don’t see why you need +fire up when I admire his riding.” + +“Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him +a Cyclops,” exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. + +“You needn’t be so rude, it’s only a ‘lapse of lingy’, as Mr. Davis +says,” retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. “I just wish I had a +little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,” she added, as if to +herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. + +“Why?” asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy’s +second blunder. + +“I need it so much. I’m dreadfully in debt, and it won’t be my turn to +have the rag money for a month.” + +“In debt, Amy? What do you mean?” And Meg looked sober. + +“Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can’t pay them, you +know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged +at the shop.” + +“Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be +pricking bits of rubber to make balls.” And Meg tried to keep her +countenance, Amy looked so grave and important. + +“Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to +be thought mean, you must do it too. It’s nothing but limes now, for +everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them +off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. +If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she’s mad with her, +she eats one before her face, and doesn’t offer even a suck. They treat +by turns, and I’ve had ever so many but haven’t returned them, and I +ought for they are debts of honor, you know.” + +“How much will pay them off and restore your credit?” asked Meg, taking +out her purse. + +“A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a +treat for you. Don’t you like limes?” + +“Not much. You may have my share. Here’s the money. Make it last as +long as you can, for it isn’t very plenty, you know.” + +“Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I’ll have a +grand feast, for I haven’t tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate +about taking any, as I couldn’t return them, and I’m actually suffering +for one.” + +Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the +temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper +parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. +During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got +twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to +treat circulated through her ‘set’, and the attentions of her friends +became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on +the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, +and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon +her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish +answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss +Snow’s cutting remarks about ‘some persons whose noses were not too +flat to smell other people’s limes, and stuck-up people who were not +too proud to ask for them’, and she instantly crushed ‘that Snow +girl’s’ hopes by the withering telegram, “You needn’t be so polite all +of a sudden, for you won’t get any.” + +A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, +and Amy’s beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her +foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume +the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes +before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with +disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale +compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking +an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March +had pickled limes in her desk. + +Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly +vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the +law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum +after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated +novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had +forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done +all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in +order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but +girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with +tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. +Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of +all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, +feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular +importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and +Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that +morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, +and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved. +Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a +schoolgirl, “He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear”. The +word ‘limes’ was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he +rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat +with unusual rapidity. + +“Young ladies, attention, if you please!” + +At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, +gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance. + +“Miss March, come to the desk.” + +Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed +her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience. + +“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk,” was the unexpected +command which arrested her before she got out of her seat. + +“Don’t take all.” whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great +presence of mind. + +Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. +Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when +that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis +particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust +added to his wrath. + +“Is that all?” + +“Not quite,” stammered Amy. + +“Bring the rest immediately.” + +With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed. + +“You are sure there are no more?” + +“I never lie, sir.” + +“So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them +out of the window.” + +There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as +the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. +Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, +and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from +her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of +the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by +the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This—this was too +much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable +Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears. + +As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous “Hem!” +and said, in his most impressive manner... + +“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry +this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I +never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.” + +Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring +look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. +She was rather a favorite with ‘old Davis’, as, of course, he was +called, and it’s my private belief that he would have broken his word +if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent +in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible +gentleman, and sealed the culprit’s fate. + +“Your hand, Miss March!” was the only answer her mute appeal received, +and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head +defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her +little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no +difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck, +and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her +down. + +“You will now stand on the platform till recess,” said Mr. Davis, +resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun. + +That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and +see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few +enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, +seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop +down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense +of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and, +taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel +above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless +and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic +figure before them. + +During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive +little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others +it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard +experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been +governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her +before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten +in the sting of the thought, “I shall have to tell at home, and they +will be so disappointed in me!” + +The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, +and the word ‘Recess!’ had never seemed so welcome to her before. + +“You can go, Miss March,” said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, +uncomfortable. + +He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she +went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched +her things, and left the place “forever,” as she passionately declared +to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the +older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held +at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and +comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg +bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even +her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo +wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and +Hannah shook her fist at the ‘villain’ and pounded potatoes for dinner +as if she had him under her pestle. + +No notice was taken of Amy’s flight, except by her mates, but the +sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in +the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo +appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and +delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy’s property, and +departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as +if she shook the dust of the place off her feet. + +“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a +little every day with Beth,” said Mrs. March that evening. “I don’t +approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. +Davis’s manner of teaching and don’t think the girls you associate with +are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father’s advice before I +send you anywhere else.” + +“That’s good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old +school. It’s perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,” +sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr. + +“I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved +some punishment for disobedience,” was the severe reply, which rather +disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy. + +“Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?” +cried Amy. + +“I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,” replied her +mother, “but I’m not sure that it won’t do you more good than a bolder +method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is +quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little +gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit +spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or +goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of +possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of +all power is modesty.” + +“So it is!” cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. “I +knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she +didn’t know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed +when she was alone, and wouldn’t have believed it if anyone had told +her.” + +“I wish I’d known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I’m +so stupid,” said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly. + +“You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,” +answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his +merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face +in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery. + +Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who +could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So +Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly +lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his +character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening, +said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, “Is Laurie an +accomplished boy?” + +“Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will +make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting,” replied her mother. + +“And he isn’t conceited, is he?” asked Amy. + +“Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so +much.” + +“I see. It’s nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to +show off or get perked up,” said Amy thoughtfully. + +“These things are always seen and felt in a person’s manner and +conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display +them,” said Mrs. March. + +“Any more than it’s proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and +ribbons at once, that folks may know you’ve got them,” added Jo, and +the lecture ended in a laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT +JO MEETS APOLLYON + + +“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one +Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an +air of secrecy which excited her curiosity. + +“Never mind. Little girls shouldn’t ask questions,” returned Jo +sharply. + +Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, +it is to be told that, and to be bidden to “run away, dear” is still +more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to +find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who +never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me! +I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her +piano, and I haven’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.” + +“I can’t, dear, because you aren’t invited,” began Meg, but Jo broke in +impatiently, “Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can’t +go, Amy, so don’t be a baby and whine about it.” + +“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were +whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you +stopped when I came in. Aren’t you going with him?” + +“Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering.” + +Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her +pocket. + +“I know! I know! You’re going to the theater to see the _Seven +Castles!_” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for Mother +said I might see it, and I’ve got my rag money, and it was mean not to +tell me in time.” + +“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly. +“Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not +well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you +can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.” + +“I don’t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please +let me. I’ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I’m dying +for some fun. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good,” pleaded Amy, looking as +pathetic as she could. + +“Suppose we take her. I don’t believe Mother would mind, if we bundle +her up well,” began Meg. + +“If she goes I shan’t, and if I don’t, Laurie won’t like it, and it +will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I +should think she’d hate to poke herself where she isn’t wanted,” said +Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child +when she wanted to enjoy herself. + +Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, +in her most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay +for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.” + +“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn’t sit +alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our +pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t proper when +you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may just stay where +you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger +in her hurry. + +Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to +reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls +hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot +her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was +setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone, +“You’ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain’t.” + +“Fiddlesticks!” returned Jo, slamming the door. + +They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_ +was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the +comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and +princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy +queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she +amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her +‘sorry for it’. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the +course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be +violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and +semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed +afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had +hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually +getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having +humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do +better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a +fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately +to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat +her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it. + +When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed +an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or +asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered +resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing +description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s +first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had +soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the +floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance +into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had +forgiven and forgotten her wrongs. + +There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced +a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the +afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding +breathlessly, “Has anyone taken my book?” + +Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the +fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a +minute. + +“Amy, you’ve got it!” + +“No, I haven’t.” + +“You know where it is, then!” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“That’s a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking +fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy. + +“It isn’t. I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is now, and don’t +care.” + +“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll +make you.” And Jo gave her a slight shake. + +“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book +again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn. + +“Why not?” + +“I burned it up.” + +“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to +finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo, +turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy +nervously. + +“Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday, +and I have, so...” + +Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy +till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and +anger... + +“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never +forgive you as long as I live.” + +Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside +herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of +the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight +alone. + +The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard +the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her +sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her +family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen +little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her +whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to +print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the +old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of +several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a +dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. +Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her +pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one +would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now +regretted more than any of them. + +When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable +that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly... + +“Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.” + +“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that +moment she ignored Amy entirely. + +No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had +learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted, +and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own +generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was +not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother +read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and +the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing +time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy +broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts +to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as +well as usual, and all felt out of tune. + +As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My +dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, +help each other, and begin again tomorrow.” + +Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her +grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she +felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So +she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was +listening, “It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be +forgiven.” + +With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or +confidential gossip that night. + +Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, +and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured +than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which +was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, +and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she +dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack +of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful +when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were +always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other +people set them a virtuous example. + +“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always +kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself, +and off she went. + +Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient +exclamation. + +“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we +shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.” + +“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the +loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and +I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go +after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with +Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind +thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.” + +“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to +get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over +the hill. + +It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached +them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for +he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm +spell had preceded the cold snap. + +“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right before we +begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a +young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap. + +Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on +her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and +went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of +satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till +it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and +feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, +he shouted back... + +“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy +was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over +her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear... + +“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.” + +Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, +far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the +river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart, +then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, +just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden +crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s +heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice +was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no +strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless, +staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the +black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice cried +out... + +“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!” + +How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked +as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, +and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged +a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more +frightened than hurt. + +“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on +her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping +his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed +so intricate before. + +Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an +exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot +fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking +pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands +cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was +comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, +she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands. + +“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the +golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever +under the treacherous ice. + +“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think, +you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied +her mother cheerfully. + +“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it +would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of +penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her +hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the +heavy punishment which might have come upon her. + +“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it +breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I +do?” cried poor Jo, in despair. + +“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is +impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy +head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo +cried even harder. + +“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could +do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone +and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and +spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help +me!” + +“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this +day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another +like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than +yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think +your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like +it.” + +“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo forgot +remorse in surprise. + +“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded +in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I +have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, +though it may take me another forty years to do so.” + +The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a +better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She +felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The +knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, +made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it, +though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a +girl of fifteen. + +“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go +out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?” +asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before. + +“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and +when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away +for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and +wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed +and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair. + +“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the +sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say +the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say +dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.” + +“My good mother used to help me...” + +“As you do us...” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss. + +“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years +had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to +anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears +over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on. +Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be +good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we +were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by +nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.” + +“Poor Mother! What helped you then?” + +“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains, +but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed +to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me +that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little +girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your +sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you +when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, +and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest +reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them +copy.” + +“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,” +cried Jo, much touched. + +“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch +over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not +spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with +heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you +greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.” + +“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and +keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger +on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you +always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you +then?” asked Jo softly. + +“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me +from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.” + +Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she +spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, +“Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be +rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so +safe and happy here.” + +“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest +happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how +much I love them.” + +“I thought I’d grieved you.” + +“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how +much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his +little daughters safe and good for him.” + +“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never +complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering. + +“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was +gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and +will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to need +help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to +comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your +life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive +them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your +Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love +and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will +depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or +change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of +lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go +to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as +freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.” + +Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which +followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart +without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only +the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial +and self-control, and led by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to +the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than +that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother. + +Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once +to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it +had never worn before. + +“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and today, +if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I +be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister +softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow. + +As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a +smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they +hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was +forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss. + + + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER TEN +THE P.C. AND P.O. + + +As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the +lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. +The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the +little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, “I’d know +which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see ’em in Chiny,” and so +she might, for the girls’ tastes differed as much as their characters. +Meg’s had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. +Jo’s bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying +experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the +seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top +and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in +her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and +southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies. +Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to +look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored +horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, +delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would +consent to blossom there. + +Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine +days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some +new, all more or less original. One of these was the ‘P.C.’, for as +secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, +and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the +Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a +year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which +occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in +a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with +a big ‘P.C.’ in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper +called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, +while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven +o’clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges +round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as +the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus +Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, +who was always trying to do what she couldn’t, was Nathaniel Winkle. +Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original +tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which +they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short +comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles +without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared +hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he +arranged himself properly, began to read: + + +“THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO” + + +MAY 20, 18— + + +POET’S CORNER + + +ANNIVERSARY ODE + + +Again we meet to celebrate + With badge and solemn rite, +Our fifty-second anniversary, + In Pickwick Hall, tonight. + +We all are here in perfect health, + None gone from our small band: +Again we see each well-known face, + And press each friendly hand. + +Our Pickwick, always at his post, + With reverence we greet, +As, spectacles on nose, he reads + Our well-filled weekly sheet. + +Although he suffers from a cold, + We joy to hear him speak, +For words of wisdom from him fall, + In spite of croak or squeak. + +Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, + With elephantine grace, +And beams upon the company, + With brown and jovial face. + +Poetic fire lights up his eye, + He struggles ’gainst his lot. +Behold ambition on his brow, + And on his nose, a blot. + +Next our peaceful Tupman comes, + So rosy, plump, and sweet, +Who chokes with laughter at the puns, + And tumbles off his seat. + +Prim little Winkle too is here, + With every hair in place, +A model of propriety, + Though he hates to wash his face. + +The year is gone, we still unite + To joke and laugh and read, +And tread the path of literature + That doth to glory lead. + +Long may our paper prosper well, + Our club unbroken be, +And coming years their blessings pour + On the useful, gay ‘P. C.’. + + +A. SNODGRASS + + +THE MASKED MARRIAGE +(A Tale Of Venice) + + +Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely +load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of +Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower +girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody +filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on. +“Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?” asked a gallant +troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm. + +“Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, +for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates.” + +“By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, +except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the +fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows +her hand,” returned the troubadour. + +“Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her +steps, and is spurned by the old Count,” said the lady, as they joined +the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and +withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he +motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not +a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves +sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke +thus: + +“My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here +to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services.” +All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went +through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. +Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all +tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered +round the count, demanding an explanation. + +“Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the +whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the +play end. Unmask and receive my blessing.” + +But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone +that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face +of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast +where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, +radiant with joy and beauty. + +“My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast +as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, +for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De +Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for +the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife.” + +The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the +bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, “To +you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper +as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by +this masked marriage.” + +S. PICKWICK + + +Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? +It is full of unruly members. + + +THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH + + +Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and +after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One +day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to +market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a +little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub +nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, +and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter, +for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four +spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and +baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a +family named March. + + +T. TUPMAN + + +Mr. Pickwick, _Sir:_— + I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man + named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and + sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will + pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t + write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains + in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some + work which will be all _commy la fo_ that means all right I am in + haste as it is nearly school time. + + +Yours respectably, +N. WINKLE + + +[The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. +If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.] + + +A SAD ACCIDENT + + +On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, +followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we +discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having +tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect +scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged +his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap +upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from +this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no +injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well. + + +ED. + + +THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT + + +It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious +disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This +lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and +admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and +virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the +whole community. + When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s + cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, + basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been + discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her + basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us + forever. + + +A sympathizing friend sends the following gem: + +A LAMENT +FOR S. B. PAT PAW + + +We mourn the loss of our little pet, + And sigh o’er her hapless fate, +For never more by the fire she’ll sit, + Nor play by the old green gate. + +The little grave where her infant sleeps + Is ’neath the chestnut tree. +But o’er _her_ grave we may not weep, + We know not where it may be. + +Her empty bed, her idle ball, + Will never see her more; +No gentle tap, no loving purr + Is heard at the parlor door. + +Another cat comes after her mice, + A cat with a dirty face, +But she does not hunt as our darling did, + Nor play with her airy grace. + +Her stealthy paws tread the very hall + Where Snowball used to play, +But she only spits at the dogs our pet + So gallantly drove away. + +She is useful and mild, and does her best, + But she is not fair to see, +And we cannot give her your place dear, + Nor worship her as we worship thee. + + +A.S. + + +ADVERTISEMENTS + + +MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will +deliver her famous lecture on “WOMAN AND HER POSITION” at Pickwick +Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances. + + +A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies +how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend. + + +THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the +upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and +shoulder their brooms at nine precisely. + + +MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll’s Millinery next +week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are +respectfully solicited. + + +A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few +weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage. +“THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger,” is the name of this +thrilling drama!!! + + +HINTS + + +If S.P. didn’t use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn’t always be +late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T. +please don’t forget Amy’s napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress +has not nine tucks. + + +WEEKLY REPORT + + +Meg—Good. +Jo—Bad. +Beth—Very Good. +Amy—Middling. + + +As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to +assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls +once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass +rose to make a proposition. + +“Mr. President and gentlemen,” he began, assuming a parliamentary +attitude and tone, “I wish to propose the admission of a new member—one +who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and +would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of +the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore +Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him.” + +Jo’s sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather +anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat. + +“We’ll put it to a vote,” said the President. “All in favor of this +motion please to manifest it by saying, ‘Aye’.” + +A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody’s surprise, by a +timid one from Beth. + +“Contrary-minded say, ‘No’.” + +Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great +elegance, “We don’t wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about. +This is a ladies’ club, and we wish to be private and proper.” + +“I’m afraid he’ll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,” +observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she +always did when doubtful. + +Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. “Sir, I give you my word as a +gentleman, Laurie won’t do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and +he’ll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being +sentimental, don’t you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so +much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, +and make him welcome if he comes.” + +This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, +looking as if he had quite made up his mind. + +“Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and +his grandpa, too, if he likes.” + +This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her +seat to shake hands approvingly. “Now then, vote again. Everybody +remember it’s our Laurie, and say, ‘Aye!’” cried Snodgrass excitedly. + +“Aye! Aye! Aye!” replied three voices at once. + +“Good! Bless you! Now, as there’s nothing like ‘taking time by the +fetlock’, as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present +the new member.” And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw +open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag, +flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter. + +“You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?” cried the three girls, as +Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair +and a badge, installed him in a jiffy. + +“The coolness of you two rascals is amazing,” began Mr. Pickwick, +trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an +amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and +rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most +engaging manner, “Mr. President and ladies—I beg pardon, +gentlemen—allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble +servant of the club.” + +“Good! Good!” cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan +on which she leaned. + +“My faithful friend and noble patron,” continued Laurie with a wave of +the hand, “who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed +for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in +after lots of teasing.” + +“Come now, don’t lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the +cupboard,” broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly. + +“Never mind what she says. I’m the wretch that did it, sir,” said the +new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. “But on my honor, I +never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of +this immortal club.” + +“Hear! Hear!” cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a +cymbal. + +“Go on, go on!” added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed +benignly. + +“I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the +honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between +adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the +lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on +the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I +may be allowed the expression. It’s the old martin house, but I’ve +stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts +of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and +bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will +be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with +many thanks for your favor, take my seat.” + +Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and +subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some +time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and +everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an +unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it +broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member. + +No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, +well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did +add ‘spirit’ to the meetings, and ‘a tone’ to the paper, for his +orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent, +being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never +sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or +Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought. + +The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, +for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real +post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds +and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, +scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused +himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny +telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah’s charms, +actually sent a love letter to Jo’s care. How they laughed when the +secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post +office would hold in the years to come. + + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN +EXPERIMENTS + + +“The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I’m +free. Three months’ vacation—how I shall enjoy it!” exclaimed Meg, +coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual +state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made +lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party. + +“Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!” said Jo. “I was +mortally afraid she’d ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have +felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a +churchyard, you know, and I’d rather be excused. We had a flurry +getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to +me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly +helpful and sweet, and feared she’d find it impossible to part from me. +I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, +for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, ‘Josyphine, won’t +you—?’ I didn’t hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did +actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe.” + +“Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her,” said +Beth, as she cuddled her sister’s feet with a motherly air. + +“Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?” observed Amy, tasting +her mixture critically. + +“She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too warm +to be particular about one’s parts of speech,” murmured Jo. + +“What shall you do all your vacation?” asked Amy, changing the subject +with tact. + +“I shall lie abed late, and do nothing,” replied Meg, from the depths +of the rocking chair. “I’ve been routed up early all winter and had to +spend my days working for other people, so now I’m going to rest and +revel to my heart’s content.” + +“No,” said Jo, “that dozy way wouldn’t suit me. I’ve laid in a heap of +books, and I’m going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in +the old apple tree, when I’m not having l——” + +“Don’t say ‘larks!’” implored Amy, as a return snub for the ‘samphire’ +correction. + +“I’ll say ‘nightingales’ then, with Laurie. That’s proper and +appropriate, since he’s a warbler.” + +“Don’t let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time +and rest, as the girls mean to,” proposed Amy. + +“Well, I will, if Mother doesn’t mind. I want to learn some new songs, +and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out +of order and really suffering for clothes.” + +“May we, Mother?” asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in +what they called ‘Marmee’s corner’. + +“You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I +think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as +bad as all work and no play.” + +“Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I’m sure,” said Meg complacently. + +“I now propose a toast, as my ‘friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp’, says. +Fun forever, and no grubbing!” cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the +lemonade went round. + +They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the +rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o’clock. Her +solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and +untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy’s +books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but ‘Marmee’s +corner’, which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to ‘rest and read’, +which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would +get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and +the afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide World_, up in the +apple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet +where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left +her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she +had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white +frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, +hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no +one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work +with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home +dripping. + +At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a +delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the +afternoon and got a ‘sweet blue muslin’, had discovered, after she had +cut the breadths off, that it wouldn’t wash, which mishap made her +slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a +raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion +of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at +once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy +Brown’s party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she +had ‘nothing to wear’. But these were mere trifles, and they assured +their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said +nothing, and with Hannah’s help did their neglected work, keeping home +pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was +astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was +produced by the ‘resting and reveling’ process. The days kept getting +longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were +tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found +plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury, +Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily, +that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to +furbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was +sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a +quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished +she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was +constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell +back into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected +her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so +that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her +she was ‘a fright’. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were +small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found +that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn’t +like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn’t draw all the +time. Tea parties didn’t amount to much, neither did picnics, unless +very well conducted. “If one could have a fine house, full of nice +girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at +home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try +the patience of a Boaz,” complained Miss Malaprop, after several days +devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui. + +No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday +night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was +nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who +had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an +appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls +enjoy the full effect of the play system. + +When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, +no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen. + +“Mercy on us! What has happened?” cried Jo, staring about her in +dismay. + +Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather +bewildered, and a little ashamed. + +“Mother isn’t sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay +quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It’s a very +queer thing for her to do, she doesn’t act a bit like herself. But she +says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn’t grumble but take +care of ourselves.” + +“That’s easy enough, and I like the idea, I’m aching for something to +do, that is, some new amusement, you know,” added Jo quickly. + +In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and +they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah’s +saying, “Housekeeping ain’t no joke.” There was plenty of food in the +larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast, +wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work. + +“I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think +of her, for she’d take care of herself,” said Meg, who presided and +felt quite matronly behind the teapot. + +So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the +cook’s compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet +scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March +received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo +was gone. + +“Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I’m afraid, but they +won’t suffer, and it will do them good,” she said, producing the more +palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of +the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly +little deception for which they were grateful. + +Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook +at her failures. “Never mind, I’ll get the dinner and be servant, you +be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders,” said +Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs. + +This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the +parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the +sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with +perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the +quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to +dinner. + +“You’d better see what you have got before you think of having +company,” said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act. + +“Oh, there’s corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some +asparagus and a lobster, ‘for a relish’, as Hannah says. We’ll have +lettuce and make a salad. I don’t know how, but the book tells. I’ll +have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you +want to be elegant.” + +“Don’t try too many messes, Jo, for you can’t make anything but +gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the +dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own +responsibility, you may just take care of him.” + +“I don’t want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the +pudding. You’ll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won’t you?” +asked Jo, rather hurt. + +“Yes, but I don’t know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You +had better ask Mother’s leave before you order anything,” returned Meg +prudently. + +“Of course I shall. I’m not a fool.” And Jo went off in a huff at the +doubts expressed of her powers. + +“Get what you like, and don’t disturb me. I’m going out to dinner and +can’t worry about things at home,” said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to +her. “I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I’m going to take a vacation +today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself.” + +The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and +reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural +phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic +eruption would hardly have seemed stranger. + +“Everything is out of sorts, somehow,” she said to herself, going +downstairs. “There’s Beth crying, that’s a sure sign that something is +wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I’ll shake her.” + +Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to +find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with +his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for +want of which he had died. + +“It’s all my fault, I forgot him, there isn’t a seed or a drop left. +Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?” cried Beth, taking +the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him. + +Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding +him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a +coffin. + +“Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive,” said Amy +hopefully. + +“He’s been starved, and he shan’t be baked now he’s dead. I’ll make him +a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I’ll never have +another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one,” murmured +Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands. + +“The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don’t +cry, Bethy. It’s a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has +had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my +box, and after the dinner party, we’ll have a nice little funeral,” +said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal. + +Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which +was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron, +she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when +she discovered that the fire was out. + +“Here’s a sweet prospect!” muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open, +and poking vigorously among the cinders. + +Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the +water heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that +she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very +young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid +strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and +the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had +worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and +forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when +the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure +appeared, demanding tartly... + +“I say, isn’t bread ‘riz’ enough when it runs over the pans?” + +Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high +as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the +sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out, +after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a +word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear +departed lay in state in the domino box. A strange sense of +helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the +corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker +appeared, and said she’d come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin, +yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw +everything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had +been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and +had few friends. So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain +her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories +of the people whom she knew. + +Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions +which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a +standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, +and discovered that something more than energy and good will is +necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was +grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever. +The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that +she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to +her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager +proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to +be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the +last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as +they looked, having been skilfully ‘deaconed’. + +“Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only +it’s mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,” +thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and +stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before +Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose +tattling tongue would report them far and wide. + +Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after +another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, +Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all +his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo’s one strong +point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of +rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew +a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone +looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of +cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water +hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they +dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was +eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth +and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate +fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and +left the table precipitately. + +“Oh, what is it?” exclaimed Jo, trembling. + +“Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour,” replied Meg with a +tragic gesture. + +Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had +given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes +on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the +refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when +she met Laurie’s eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic +efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she +laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even +‘Croaker’ as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner +ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun. + +“I haven’t strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober +ourselves with a funeral,” said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made +ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend’s +dinner table. + +They did sober themselves for Beth’s sake. Laurie dug a grave under the +ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his +tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of +violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, +composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner. + +Here lies Pip March, +Who died the 7th of June; +Loved and lamented sore, +And not forgotten soon. + + +At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome +with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the +beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up +the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the +remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so +tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper. + +Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour +cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came +home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the +afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success +of one part of the experiment. + +Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was +a scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands +done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last +minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on +the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each +groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled. + +“What a dreadful day this has been!” began Jo, usually the first to +speak. + +“It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable,” said Meg. + +“Not a bit like home,” added Amy. + +“It can’t seem so without Marmee and little Pip,” sighed Beth, glancing +with full eyes at the empty cage above her head. + +“Here’s Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you +want it.” + +As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as +if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs. + +“Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another +week of it?” she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned +toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun. + +“I don’t!” cried Jo decidedly. + +“Nor I,” echoed the others. + +“You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a +little for others, do you?” + +“Lounging and larking doesn’t pay,” observed Jo, shaking her head. “I’m +tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off.” + +“Suppose you learn plain cooking. That’s a useful accomplishment, which +no woman should be without,” said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the +recollection of Jo’s dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and +heard her account of it. + +“Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we’d +get on?” cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day. + +“Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing +her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on +pretty well, though I don’t think you were very happy or amiable. So I +thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when +everyone thinks only of herself. Don’t you feel that it is pleasanter +to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when +it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and +lovely to us all?” + +“We do, Mother, we do!” cried the girls. + +“Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for +though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as +we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for +everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and +spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than +money or fashion.” + +“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don’t,” said Jo. +“I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner +party I have shall be a success.” + +“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, +Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be +better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as +they are.” said Meg. + +“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music +and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,” +was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically +declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts +of speech.” + +“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy +that we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme +and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each +day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth +of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age +will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite +of poverty.” + +“We’ll remember, Mother!” and they did. + + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE +CAMP LAURENCE + + +Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it +regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door +and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands +full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the +penny post. + +“Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said, +putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in ‘Marmee’s corner’, +and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy. + +“Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering +the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching +wristbands. + +“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg, +looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the +garden?” + +“No, I’m sure I didn’t, for there was only one in the office.” + +“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My +letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr. +Brooke did it, for this isn’t Laurie’s writing.” + +Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham +morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and +very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy +white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother’s mind as she +sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied +with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, +that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied. + +“Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered +the whole post office and stuck outside,” said Beth, laughing as she +went into the study where Jo sat writing. + +“What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the +fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, ‘Why mind the +fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!’ I said I would if I had +one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I’ll wear it for fun, and show +him I don’t care for the fashion.” And hanging the antique broad-brim +on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters. + +One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said +to her... + +My Dear: + + +I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch +your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about your trials, +failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but +the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover +of your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in +the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on, +dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes +more tenderly with you than your loving... + + +Mother + + +“That does me good! That’s worth millions of money and pecks of praise. +Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I +have you to help me.” + +Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy +tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts +to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, +because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most +valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she +pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she +be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready +for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote... + +Dear Jo, What ho! + + +Some English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to +have a jolly time. If it’s fine, I’m going to pitch my tent in +Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet—have a fire, +make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice +people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady, +and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to +come, can’t let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her. +Don’t bother about rations, I’ll see to that and everything else, only +do come, there’s a good fellow! + + +In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie. + + +“Here’s richness!” cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg. + +“Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I +can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some +way.” + +“I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything +about them, Jo?” asked Meg. + +“Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and +Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or +ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the +way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn’t admire +Kate much.” + +“I’m so glad my French print is clean, it’s just the thing and so +becoming!” observed Meg complacently. “Have you anything decent, Jo?” + +“Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and +tramp about, so I don’t want any starch to think of. You’ll come, +Betty?” + +“If you won’t let any boys talk to me.” + +“Not a boy!” + +“I like to please Laurie, and I’m not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so +kind. But I don’t want to play, or sing, or say anything. I’ll work +hard and not trouble anyone, and you’ll take care of me, Jo, so I’ll +go.” + +“That’s my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love +you for it. Fighting faults isn’t easy, as I know, and a cheery word +kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother,” And Jo gave the thin cheek a +grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back +the rosy roundness of her youth. + +“I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy,” +said Amy, showing her mail. + +“And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to +him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go,” added Beth, +whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely. + +“Now let’s fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play +tomorrow with free minds,” said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a +broom. + +When the sun peeped into the girls’ room early next morning to promise +them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation +for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of +little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her +afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her +to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax +by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature. It +was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing +boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it +was now being put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for +he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters +by a hearty laugh at Amy’s ornament. + +Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a +lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept +reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters’ toilets by +frequent telegrams from the window. + +“There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch +in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the +sky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There’s Laurie, +looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here’s a carriage full +of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is +lame, poor thing, he’s got a crutch. Laurie didn’t tell us that. Be +quick, girls! It’s getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do +declare. Meg, isn’t that the man who bowed to you one day when we were +shopping?” + +“So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the +mountains. There is Sallie. I’m glad she got back in time. Am I all +right, Jo?” cried Meg in a flutter. + +“A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it +looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff. +Now then, come on!” + +“Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It’s too absurd! You +shall not make a guy of yourself,” remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down +with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had +sent for a joke. + +“I just will, though, for it’s capital, so shady, light, and big. It +will make fun, and I don’t mind being a guy if I’m comfortable.” With +that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little +band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy +faces under the jaunty hatbrims. + +Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial +manner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a +lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate, +though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would +do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr. Ned’s assurances +that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie ‘primmed +up his mouth’ when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a +standoff-don’t-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free +and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the +new boys and decided that the lame one was not ‘dreadful’, but gentle +and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found +Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after staring dumbly +at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good +friends. + +Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the +party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving +Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, +Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did +his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed +water bug. Jo’s funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of +general utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing a +laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she +rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a +shower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was ‘odd’, but +rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar. + +Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with +the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with +uncommon ‘skill and dexterity’. Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young +man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet +manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge. +He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she +felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in +college, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their +bounden duty to assume. He was not very wise, but very good-natured, +and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie +Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and +chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror +by his pranks. + +It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets +down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three +wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for +croquet. + +“Welcome to Camp Laurence!” said the young host, as they landed with +exclamations of delight. + +“Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other +fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is +for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is +the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now, let’s have a game +before it gets hot, and then we’ll see about dinner.” + +Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the +other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie, +Jo, and Ned. The English played well, but the Americans played better, +and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of +’76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly +escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had missed the +stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind +her and his turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the +wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near, +and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which +put it just an inch on the right side. + +“I’m through! Now, Miss Jo, I’ll settle you, and get in first,” cried +the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow. + +“You pushed it. I saw you. It’s my turn now,” said Jo sharply. + +“Upon my word, I didn’t move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is +allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake.” + +“We don’t cheat in America, but you can, if you choose,” said Jo +angrily. + +“Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!” +returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away. + +Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time, +colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket +with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out +with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time +finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and quiet, +and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the +place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had nearly +won, for Kate’s ball was the last but one and lay near the stake. + +“By George, it’s all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so +you are finished,” cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see +the finish. + +“Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies,” said Jo, +with a look that made the lad redden, “especially when they beat them,” +she added, as, leaving Kate’s ball untouched, she won the game by a +clever stroke. + +Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn’t do to exult +over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer +to whisper to his friend, “Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him. +We can’t tell him so, but he won’t do it again, take my word for it.” + +Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and +said approvingly, “It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your +temper, and I’m so glad, Jo.” + +“Don’t praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should +certainly have boiled over if I hadn’t stayed among the nettles till I +got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It’s simmering now, +so I hope he’ll keep out of my way,” returned Jo, biting her lips as +she glowered at Fred from under her big hat. + +“Time for lunch,” said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. “Commissary +general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss +Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?” + +“Jo can,” said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that +her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over +the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys +made a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and +Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to +serve as plates. + +The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an +inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with +green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone +settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and +exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was, for +everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter +startled a venerable horse who fed near by. There was a pleasing +inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and +plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the +refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down +from the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children +peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the +other side of the river with all his might and main. + +“There’s salt here,” said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries. + +“Thank you, I prefer spiders,” she replied, fishing up two unwary +little ones who had gone to a creamy death. “How dare you remind me of +that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?” added +Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run +short. + +“I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven’t got over it yet. +This is no credit to me, you know, I don’t do anything. It’s you and +Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I’m no end obliged to you. What +shall we do when we can’t eat anymore?” asked Laurie, feeling that his +trump card had been played when lunch was over. + +“Have games till it’s cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss +Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She’s company, and +you ought to stay with her more.” + +“Aren’t you company too? I thought she’d suit Brooke, but he keeps +talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous +glass of hers. I’m going, so you needn’t try to preach propriety, for +you can’t do it, Jo.” + +Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and +the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing +room to play Rig-marole. + +“One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as +he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when +the next takes it up and does the same. It’s very funny when well done, +and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over. +Please start it, Mr. Brooke,” said Kate, with a commanding air, which +surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other +gentleman. + +Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke +obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed +upon the sunshiny river. + +“Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune, +for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long +while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till +he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to +anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he +was very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely, +for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new +master, though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his +lessons to this pet of the king’s, the knight rode him through the +city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful +face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found. One +day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a +ruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in +this old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept +there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their +liberty. The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he +was poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and +longing to see it out in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into +the castle and ask how he could help them. He went and knocked. The +great door flew open, and he beheld...” + +“A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, ‘At +last! At last!’” continued Kate, who had read French novels, and +admired the style. “’Tis she!’ cried Count Gustave, and fell at her +feet in an ecstasy of joy. ‘Oh, rise!’ she said, extending a hand of +marble fairness. ‘Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,’ swore +the knight, still kneeling. ‘Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain +here till my tyrant is destroyed.’ ‘Where is the villain?’ ‘In the +mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.’ ‘I obey, and +return victorious or dead!’ With these thrilling words he rushed away, +and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when +he received...” + +“A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a +black gown fired at him,” said Ned. “Instantly, Sir What’s-his-name +recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to +join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door +locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when +the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet +below. Could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to +a little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads +together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling +exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a +pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as +your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss +March. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took +his breath away and chilled his blood...” + +“A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in +its wasted hand,” went on Meg. “It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before +him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in +armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned +blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him, +showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached +a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music. He sprang forward +to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly +before him a...” + +“Snuffbox,” said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the +audience. “‘Thankee,’ said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and +sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. ‘Ha! Ha!’ +laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the +princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her +victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other +knights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all +rose and began to...” + +“Dance a hornpipe,” cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, “and, as they +danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail. +‘Up with the jib, reef the tops’l halliards, helm hard alee, and man +the guns!’ roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight, +with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. ‘Go in and win, my +hearties!’ says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course +the British beat—they always do.” + +“No, they don’t!” cried Jo, aside. + +“Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the +schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers +ran blood, for the order had been ‘Cutlasses, and die hard!’ ‘Bosun’s +mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if +he doesn’t confess his sins double quick,’ said the British captain. +The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, +while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up +under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail +set, ‘To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea’ where...” + +“Oh, gracious! What shall I say?” cried Sallie, as Fred ended his +rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases +and facts out of one of his favorite books. “Well, they went to the +bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on +finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, +hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was +curious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, ‘I’ll give +you a box of pearls if you can take it up,’ for she wanted to restore +the poor things to life, and couldn’t raise the heavy load herself. So +the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to +find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found +by a...” + +“Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field,” said +Amy, when Sallie’s invention gave out. “The little girl was sorry for +them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. ‘Your +geese will tell you, they know everything.’ said the old woman. So she +asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost, +and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed...” + +“‘Cabbages!’” continued Laurie promptly. “‘Just the thing,’ said the +girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on, +the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way +rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other +heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The +knight in whom I’m interested went back to find the pretty face, and +learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and +married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting +the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle +to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his +affections picking flowers in her garden. ‘Will you give me a rose?’ +said he. ‘You must come and get it. I can’t come to you, it isn’t +proper,’ said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, +but it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through, +but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently +broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he +peeped, saying imploringly, ‘Let me in! Let me in!’ But the pretty +princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, +and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will +tell you.” + +“I can’t. I’m not playing, I never do,” said Frank, dismayed at the +sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd +couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep. + +“So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?” asked +Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in +his buttonhole. + +“I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a +while,” said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his +tutor. + +“What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do +something quite clever. Do you know Truth?” + +“I hope so,” said Meg soberly. + +“The game, I mean?” + +“What is it?” said Fred. + +“Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, +and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question +put by the rest. It’s great fun.” + +“Let’s try it,” said Jo, who liked new experiments. + +Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo, +and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie. + +“Who are your heroes?” asked Jo. + +“Grandfather and Napoleon.” + +“Which lady here do you think prettiest?” said Sallie. + +“Margaret.” + +“Which do you like best?” from Fred. + +“Jo, of course.” + +“What silly questions you ask!” And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the +rest laughed at Laurie’s matter-of-fact tone. + +“Try again. Truth isn’t a bad game,” said Fred. + +“It’s a very good one for you,” retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn +came next. + +“What is your greatest fault?” asked Fred, by way of testing in her the +virtue he lacked himself. + +“A quick temper.” + +“What do you most wish for?” said Laurie. + +“A pair of boot lacings,” returned Jo, guessing and defeating his +purpose. + +“Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most.” + +“Genius. Don’t you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?” And she slyly +smiled in his disappointed face. + +“What virtues do you most admire in a man?” asked Sallie. + +“Courage and honesty.” + +“Now my turn,” said Fred, as his hand came last. + +“Let’s give it to him,” whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at +once... + +“Didn’t you cheat at croquet?” + +“Well, yes, a little bit.” + +“Good! Didn’t you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_” said Laurie. + +“Rather.” + +“Don’t you think the English nation perfect in every respect?” asked +Sallie. + +“I should be ashamed of myself if I didn’t.” + +“He’s a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance +without waiting to draw. I’ll harrrow up your feelings first by asking +if you don’t think you are something of a flirt,” said Laurie, as Jo +nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared. + +“You impertinent boy! Of course I’m not,” exclaimed Sallie, with an air +that proved the contrary. + +“What do you hate most?” asked Fred. + +“Spiders and rice pudding.” + +“What do you like best?” asked Jo. + +“Dancing and French gloves.” + +“Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let’s have a sensible game +of Authors to refresh our minds,” proposed Jo. + +Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on, +the three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her sketch +again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with +a book, which he did not read. + +“How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw,” said Meg, with +mingled admiration and regret in her voice. + +“Why don’t you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it,” +replied Miss Kate graciously. + +“I haven’t time.” + +“Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I +proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and +then she was quite willing I should go on. Can’t you do the same with +your governess?” + +“I have none.” + +“I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very +fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I +suppose?” + +“I don’t go at all. I am a governess myself.” + +“Oh, indeed!” said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, “Dear +me, how dreadful!” for her tone implied it, and something in her face +made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank. + +Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, “Young ladies in America love +independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and +respected for supporting themselves.” + +“Oh, yes, of course it’s very nice and proper in them to do so. We have +many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are +employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen, +they are both well bred and accomplished, you know,” said Miss Kate in +a patronizing tone that hurt Meg’s pride, and made her work seem not +only more distasteful, but degrading. + +“Did the German song suit, Miss March?” inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking +an awkward pause. + +“Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I’m much obliged to whoever translated +it for me.” And Meg’s downcast face brightened as she spoke. + +“Don’t you read German?” asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise. + +“Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don’t get on +very fast alone, for I’ve no one to correct my pronunciation.” + +“Try a little now. Here is Schiller’s Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves +to teach.” And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting +smile. + +“It’s so hard I’m afraid to try,” said Meg, grateful, but bashful in +the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her. + +“I’ll read a bit to encourage you.” And Miss Kate read one of the most +beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless +manner. + +Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said +innocently, “I thought it was poetry.” + +“Some of it is. Try this passage.” + +There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke’s mouth as he opened at poor +Mary’s lament. + +Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used +to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of +the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the +page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in +the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little +touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the +brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up, +and the lesson was not spoiled for her. + +“Very well indeed!” said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her +many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach. + +Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little +tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension, +“You’ve a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise you +to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must +look after Grace, she is romping.” And Miss Kate strolled away, adding +to herself with a shrug, “I didn’t come to chaperone a governess, +though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. I’m +afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them.” + +“I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses +and don’t treat them as we do,” said Meg, looking after the retreating +figure with an annoyed expression. + +“Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my +sorrow. There’s no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret.” +And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to +lament her hard lot. + +“I’m glad I live in it then. I don’t like my work, but I get a good +deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won’t complain. I only +wished I liked teaching as you do.” + +“I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry +to lose him next year,” said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the +turf. + +“Going to college, I suppose?” Meg’s lips asked the question, but her +eyes added, “And what becomes of you?” + +“Yes, it’s high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is +off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed.” + +“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Meg. “I should think every young man +would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who +stay at home,” she added sorrowfully. + +“I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die,” +said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the +hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave. + +“Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all +be very sorry to have any harm happen to you,” said Meg heartily. + +“Thank you, that sounds pleasant,” began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful +again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old +horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the +young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day. + +“Don’t you love to ride?” asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting +after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned. + +“I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but +we don’t keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree,” added Amy, laughing. + +“Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?” asked Grace curiously. + +“Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we’ve only got +an old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree that +has a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on +the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we +like.” + +“How funny!” laughed Grace. “I have a pony at home, and ride nearly +every day in the park with Fred and Kate. It’s very nice, for my +friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen.” + +“Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I’d rather +go to Rome than the Row,” said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what +the Row was and wouldn’t have asked for the world. + +Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were +saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture +as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical +gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards, looked +up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, “I’m afraid you are tired. +Can I do anything for you?” + +“Talk to me, please. It’s dull, sitting by myself,” answered Frank, who +had evidently been used to being made much of at home. + +If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a +more impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to, +no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her +that she bravely resolved to try. + +“What do you like to talk about?” she asked, fumbling over the cards +and dropping half as she tried to tie them up. + +“Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting,” said +Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength. + +My heart! What shall I do? I don’t know anything about them, thought +Beth, and forgetting the boy’s misfortune in her flurry, she said, +hoping to make him talk, “I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you +know all about it.” + +“I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a +confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for +me,” said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her +innocent blunder. + +“Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes,” she said, +turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one +of the boys’ books in which Jo delighted. + +Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to +amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her +sisters’ surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking +away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged +protection. + +“Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him,” said Jo, +beaming at her from the croquet ground. + +“I always said she was a little saint,” added Meg, as if there could be +no further doubt of it. + +“I haven’t heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long,” said Grace to +Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn +cups. + +“My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be,” said +Amy, well pleased at Beth’s success. She meant ‘facinating’, but as +Grace didn’t know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded +well and made a good impression. + +An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet +finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, +wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the +river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, +warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain... + +Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone, + + +and at the lines... + +We each are young, we each have a heart, +Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart? + + +he looked at Meg with such a lackadaisical expression that she laughed +outright and spoiled his song. + +“How can you be so cruel to me?” he whispered, under cover of a lively +chorus. “You’ve kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day, +and now you snub me.” + +“I didn’t mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn’t help it,” +replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was +quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and +the talk after it. + +Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her +rather pettishly, “There isn’t a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?” + +“Not a particle, but she’s a dear,” returned Sallie, defending her +friend even while confessing her shortcomings. + +“She’s not a stricken deer anyway,” said Ned, trying to be witty, and +succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do. + +On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with +cordial good nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to +Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate +looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice, +“In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice +when one knows them.” + +“I quite agree with you,” said Mr. Brooke. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN +CASTLES IN THE AIR + + +Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm +September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too +lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods, for the day had +been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could +live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had +shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke’s patience to the utmost, +displeased his grandfather by practicing half the afternoon, frightened +the maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that +one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman +about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his +hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the +peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up +into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed +dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the +ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him +ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw +the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition. + +“What in the world are those girls about now?” thought Laurie, opening +his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather +peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, +flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried +a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a +portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little +back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and +river. + +“Well, that’s cool,” said Laurie to himself, “to have a picnic and +never ask me! They can’t be going in the boat, for they haven’t got the +key. Perhaps they forgot it. I’ll take it to them, and see what’s going +on.” + +Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find +one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in +his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped +the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse, +he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill +to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and +from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft +sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets. + +“Here’s a landscape!” thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and +looking wide-awake and good-natured already. + +It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in +the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic +wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the +little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no +strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily +with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her +pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick +under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy +was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. +A shadow passed over the boy’s face as he watched them, feeling that he +ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed +very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his +restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its +harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and +skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the +wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile. + +“May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?” he asked, advancing +slowly. + +Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at +once, “Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we +thought you wouldn’t care for such a girl’s game as this.” + +“I always like your games, but if Meg doesn’t want me, I’ll go away.” + +“I’ve no objection, if you do something. It’s against the rules to be +idle here,” replied Meg gravely but graciously. + +“Much obliged. I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stop a bit, for it’s +as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, +draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I’m ready.” And Laurie +sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold. + +“Finish this story while I set my heel,” said Jo, handing him the book. + +“Yes’m.” was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his +gratitude for the favor of admission into the ‘Busy Bee Society’. + +The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to +ask a few questions as a reward of merit. + +“Please, ma’am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming +institution is a new one?” + +“Would you tell him?” asked Meg of her sisters. + +“He’ll laugh,” said Amy warningly. + +“Who cares?” said Jo. + +“I guess he’ll like it,” added Beth. + +“Of course I shall! I give you my word I won’t laugh. Tell away, Jo, +and don’t be afraid.” + +“The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play +Pilgrim’s Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all +winter and summer.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Laurie, nodding wisely. + +“Who told you?” demanded Jo. + +“Spirits.” + +“No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and +he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don’t scold, Jo,” said Beth +meekly. + +“You can’t keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now.” + +“Go on, please,” said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, +looking a trifle displeased. + +“Oh, didn’t she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have +tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at +it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, +and we are ever so glad that we didn’t dawdle.” + +“Yes, I should think so,” and Laurie thought regretfully of his own +idle days. + +“Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring +our work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our +things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, +and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the +Delectable Mountain, for we can look far away and see the country where +we hope to live some time.” + +Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the +wood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the +other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green +hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens +glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds +lay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery +white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City. + +“How beautiful that is!” said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see +and feel beauty of any kind. + +“It’s often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but +always splendid,” replied Amy, wishing she could paint it. + +“Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime—the real +country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be +nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could +ever go to it,” said Beth musingly. + +“There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, +by-and-by, when we are good enough,” answered Meg with her sweetest +voice. + +“It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once, +as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.” + +“You’ll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,” said Jo. +“I’m the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and +maybe never get in after all.” + +“You’ll have me for company, if that’s any comfort. I shall have to do +a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I +arrive late, you’ll say a good word for me, won’t you, Beth?” + +Something in the boy’s face troubled his little friend, but she said +cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, “If people +really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will +get in, for I don’t believe there are any locks on that door or any +guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, +where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor +Christian as he comes up from the river.” + +“Wouldn’t it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could +come true, and we could live in them?” said Jo, after a little pause. + +“I’ve made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I’d have,” +said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had +betrayed him. + +“You’d have to take your favorite one. What is it?” asked Meg. + +“If I tell mine, will you tell yours?” + +“Yes, if the girls will too.” + +“We will. Now, Laurie.” + +“After I’d seen as much of the world as I want to, I’d like to settle +in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I’m to be a famous +musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I’m never +to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live +for what I like. That’s my favorite castle. What’s yours, Meg?” + +Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a +brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she +said slowly, “I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of +luxurious things—nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, +pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and +manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a +bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn’t be idle, but do good, and +make everyone love me dearly.” + +“Wouldn’t you have a master for your castle in the air?” asked Laurie +slyly. + +“I said ‘pleasant people’, you know,” and Meg carefully tied up her +shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face. + +“Why don’t you say you’d have a splendid, wise, good husband and some +angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn’t be perfect +without,” said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather +scorned romance, except in books. + +“You’d have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,” +answered Meg petulantly. + +“Wouldn’t I though? I’d have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms +piled high with books, and I’d write out of a magic inkstand, so that +my works should be as famous as Laurie’s music. I want to do something +splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that +won’t be forgotten after I’m dead. I don’t know what, but I’m on the +watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall +write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my +favorite dream.” + +“Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take +care of the family,” said Beth contentedly. + +“Don’t you wish for anything else?” asked Laurie. + +“Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we +may all keep well and be together, nothing else.” + +“I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go +to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole +world,” was Amy’s modest desire. + +“We’re an ambitious set, aren’t we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to +be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any +of us will ever get our wishes,” said Laurie, chewing grass like a +meditative calf. + +“I’ve got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the +door remains to be seen,” observed Jo mysteriously. + +“I’ve got the key to mine, but I’m not allowed to try it. Hang +college!” muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh. + +“Here’s mine!” and Amy waved her pencil. + +“I haven’t got any,” said Meg forlornly. + +“Yes, you have,” said Laurie at once. + +“Where?” + +“In your face.” + +“Nonsense, that’s of no use.” + +“Wait and see if it doesn’t bring you something worth having,” replied +the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he +fancied he knew. + +Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across +the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn +when he told the story of the knight. + +“If we are all alive ten years hence, let’s meet, and see how many of +us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,” said +Jo, always ready with a plan. + +“Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!” exclaimed Meg, who felt +grown up already, having just reached seventeen. + +“You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy +twenty-two. What a venerable party!” said Jo. + +“I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but +I’m such a lazy dog, I’m afraid I shall dawdle, Jo.” + +“You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure +you’ll work splendidly.” + +“Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!” cried Laurie, +sitting up with sudden energy. “I ought to be satisfied to please +Grandfather, and I do try, but it’s working against the grain, you see, +and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I’d +rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of +rubbish his old ships bring, and I don’t care how soon they go to the +bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I +give him four years he ought to let me off from the business. But he’s +set, and I’ve got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please +myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old +gentleman, I’d do it tomorrow.” + +Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into +execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast +and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man’s hatred of +subjection, a young man’s restless longing to try the world for +himself. + +“I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home +again till you have tried your own way,” said Jo, whose imagination was +fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was +excited by what she called ‘Teddy’s Wrongs’. + +“That’s not right, Jo. You mustn’t talk in that way, and Laurie mustn’t +take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, +my dear boy,” said Meg in her most maternal tone. “Do your best at +college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I’m sure he won’t +be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to +stay with and love him, and you’d never forgive yourself if you left +him without his permission. Don’t be dismal or fret, but do your duty +and you’ll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected +and loved.” + +“What do you know about him?” asked Laurie, grateful for the good +advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation +from himself after his unusual outbreak. + +“Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his +own mother till she died, and wouldn’t go abroad as tutor to some nice +person because he wouldn’t leave her. And how he provides now for an +old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as +generous and patient and good as he can be.” + +“So he is, dear old fellow!” said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, +looking flushed and earnest with her story. “It’s like Grandpa to find +out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his +goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn’t +understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me +and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just +perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you +all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I’ll do +for Brooke.” + +“Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,” said Meg +sharply. + +“How do you know I do, Miss?” + +“I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been +good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, +he’s sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work +better.” + +“Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in +Brooke’s face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your +window, but I didn’t know you’d got up a telegraph.” + +“We haven’t. Don’t be angry, and oh, don’t tell him I said anything! It +was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is +said in confidence, you know,” cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought +of what might follow from her careless speech. + +“I don’t tell tales,” replied Laurie, with his ‘high and mighty’ air, +as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. “Only if +Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather +for him to report.” + +“Please don’t be offended. I didn’t mean to preach or tell tales or be +silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you’d +be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were +our brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly.” +And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid. + +Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, +and said frankly, “I’m the one to be forgiven. I’m cross and have been +out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be +sisterly, so don’t mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the +same.” + +Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable +as possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook +down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a +fit person to belong to the ‘Busy Bee Society’. In the midst of an +animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those +amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound +of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea ‘to draw’, and they +would just have time to get home to supper. + +“May I come again?” asked Laurie. + +“Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer +are told to do,” said Meg, smiling. + +“I’ll try.” + +“Then you may come, and I’ll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do. +There’s a demand for socks just now,” added Jo, waving hers like a big +blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate. + +That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, +standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, +whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old +man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts +of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of +the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the +sacrifice cheerfully, “I’ll let my castle go, and stay with the dear +old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has.” + + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN +SECRETS + + +Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow +chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun +lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, +writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, +while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied +by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of +his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the +last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and +threw down her pen, exclaiming... + +“There, I’ve done my best! If this won’t suit I shall have to wait till +I can do better.” + +Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, +making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, +which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red +ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful +expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo’s +desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it +she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, +who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a +circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the +leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and +putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her +friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink. + +She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to +the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung +herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. +Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled +away to town, looking very merry and mysterious. + +If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements +decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till +she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the +place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the +dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived +into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver +she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed +young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On +returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat +over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going +to have all her teeth out. + +There was a dentist’s sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, +and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly +opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young +gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself +in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, “It’s like +her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she’ll need someone to +help her home.” + +In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the +general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying +ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked +anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, +asking with an air of sympathy, “Did you have a bad time?” + +“Not very.” + +“You got through quickly.” + +“Yes, thank goodness!” + +“Why did you go alone?” + +“Didn’t want anyone to know.” + +“You’re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?” + +Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to +laugh as if mightily amused at something. + +“There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week.” + +“What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,” said +Laurie, looking mystified. + +“So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?” + +“Begging your pardon, ma’am, it wasn’t a billiard saloon, but a +gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.” + +“I’m glad of that.” + +“Why?” + +“You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes, +and we’ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.” + +Laurie burst out with a hearty boy’s laugh, which made several +passers-by smile in spite of themselves. + +“I’ll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It’s grand fun and +will straighten you up capitally. But I don’t believe that was your +only reason for saying ‘I’m glad’ in that decided way, was it now?” + +“No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you +never go to such places. Do you?” + +“Not often.” + +“I wish you wouldn’t.” + +“It’s no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it’s no fun unless you +have good players, so, as I’m fond of it, I come sometimes and have a +game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.” + +“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, for you’ll get to liking it better and better, +and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did +hope you’d stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,” +said Jo, shaking her head. + +“Can’t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without +losing his respectability?” asked Laurie, looking nettled. + +“That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don’t like Ned and his +set, and wish you’d keep out of it. Mother won’t let us have him at our +house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won’t be +willing to have us frolic together as we do now.” + +“Won’t she?” asked Laurie anxiously. + +“No, she can’t bear fashionable young men, and she’d shut us all up in +bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.” + +“Well, she needn’t get out her bandboxes yet. I’m not a fashionable +party and don’t mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, +don’t you?” + +“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild, will you? Or +there will be an end of all our good times.” + +“I’ll be a double distilled saint.” + +“I can’t bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and +we’ll never desert you. I don’t know what I should do if you acted like +Mr. King’s son. He had plenty of money, but didn’t know how to spend +it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father’s +name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.” + +“You think I’m likely to do the same? Much obliged.” + +“No, I don’t—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about money being +such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn’t +worry then.” + +“Do you worry about me, Jo?” + +“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, +for you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m +afraid it would be hard to stop you.” + +Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she +had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled +as if at her warnings. + +“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked +presently. + +“Of course not. Why?” + +“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus. If you’re not, I’d like to walk +with you and tell you something very interesting.” + +“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news immensely.” + +“Very well, then, come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you must +tell me yours.” + +“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that +she had. + +“You know you have—you can’t hide anything, so up and ’fess, or I won’t +tell,” cried Laurie. + +“Is your secret a nice one?” + +“Oh, isn’t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to +hear it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you +begin.” + +“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?” + +“Not a word.” + +“And you won’t tease me in private?” + +“I never tease.” + +“Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don’t know +how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.” + +“Thank you. Fire away.” + +“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to give his +answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear. + +“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried +Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight +of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, +for they were out of the city now. + +“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t rest till +I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want anyone +else to be disappointed.” + +“It won’t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared +to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won’t it be fun to see +them in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?” + +Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a +friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. + +“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe you +again,” she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed +up at a word of encouragement. + +“I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn’t promise not to, so I +will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any plummy +bit of news I get. I know where Meg’s glove is.” + +“Is that all?” said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and +twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence. + +“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I tell you +where it is.” + +“Tell, then.” + +Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a +comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both +surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, “How do you +know?” + +“Saw it.” + +“Where?” + +“Pocket.” + +“All this time?” + +“Yes, isn’t that romantic?” + +“No, it’s horrid.” + +“Don’t you like it?” + +“Of course I don’t. It’s ridiculous, it won’t be allowed. My patience! +What would Meg say?” + +“You are not to tell anyone. Mind that.” + +“I didn’t promise.” + +“That was understood, and I trusted you.” + +“Well, I won’t for the present, anyway, but I’m disgusted, and wish you +hadn’t told me.” + +“I thought you’d be pleased.” + +“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.” + +“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.” + +“I’d like to see anyone try it,” cried Jo fiercely. + +“So should I!” and Laurie chuckled at the idea. + +“I don’t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind +since you told me that,” said Jo rather ungratefully. + +“Race down this hill with me, and you’ll be all right,” suggested +Laurie. + +No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and +finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat +and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached +the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his +treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright +eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. + +“I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air, +and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it’s made +me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are,” said Jo, +dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with +crimson leaves. + +Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled +up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But +someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly +ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. + +“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, regarding her +disheveled sister with well-bred surprise. + +“Getting leaves,” meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had +just swept up. + +“And hairpins,” added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo’s lap. +“They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats.” + +“You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such +romping ways?” said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and +smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. + +“Never till I’m stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don’t try to +make me grow up before my time, Meg. It’s hard enough to have you +change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can.” + +As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her +lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a +woman, and Laurie’s secret made her dread the separation which must +surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in +her face and drew Meg’s attention from it by asking quickly, “Where +have you been calling, all so fine?” + +“At the Gardiners’, and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle +Moffat’s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the +winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!” + +“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie. + +“I’m afraid I do.” + +“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk. + +“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised. + +“Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a +poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to +mind what she said. + +“I shall never ‘_go_ and marry’ anyone,” observed Meg, walking on with +great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping +stones, and ‘behaving like children’, as Meg said to herself, though +she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best +dress on. + +For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite +bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to +Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a +woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in +a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to +one another, and talking about ‘Spread Eagles’ till the girls declared +they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out +of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by +the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally +capturing her in Amy’s bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, +but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices +and a great flapping of newspapers. + +“What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young +lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. + +“I hope she won’t. She is so funny and dear as she is,” said Beth, who +had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having secrets +with anyone but her. + +“It’s very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_,” added Amy, +who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a +very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually +elegant and ladylike. + +In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected +to read. + +“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with condescension. + +“Nothing but a story, won’t amount to much, I guess,” returned Jo, +carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. + +“You’d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of +mischief,” said Amy in her most grown-up tone. + +“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind +the sheet. + +“The Rival Painters.” + +“That sounds well. Read it,” said Meg. + +With a loud “Hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The +girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat +pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. “I like that about +the splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving remark, as Jo paused. + +“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite +names, isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering +part was tragical. + +“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s face. + +The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed +countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement +replied in a loud voice, “Your sister.” + +“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work. + +“It’s very good,” said Amy critically. + +“I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to hug +her sister and exult over this splendid success. + +Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn’t +believe it till she saw the words. “Miss Josephine March,” actually +printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts +of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately +couldn’t be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth +got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to +exclaim, “Sakes alive, well I never!” in great astonishment at ‘that +Jo’s doin’s’. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo +laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a +peacock and done with it, and how the ‘Spread Eagle’ might be said to +flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper +passed from hand to hand. + +“Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “How much did you get for it?” +“What will Father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all in +one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate +people made a jubilee of every little household joy. + +“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Jo, +wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did +over her ‘Rival Painters’. Having told how she disposed of her tales, +Jo added, “And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them +both, but didn’t pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and +noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the +beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two +stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it +and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I +shall write more, and he’s going to get the next paid for, and I am so +happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls.” + +Jo’s breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she +bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be +independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest +wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that +happy end. + + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN +A TELEGRAM + + +“November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year,” said +Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the +frostbitten garden. + +“That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo pensively, quite +unconscious of the blot on her nose. + +“If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a +delightful month,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, +even November. + +“I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,” +said Meg, who was out of sorts. “We go grubbing along day after day, +without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a +treadmill.” + +“My patience, how blue we are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much wonder, poor +dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, +grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could manage things for +you as I do for my heroines! You’re pretty enough and good enough +already, so I’d have some rich relation leave you a fortune +unexpectedly. Then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has +slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of +splendor and elegance.” + +“People don’t have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have +to work and women marry for money. It’s a dreadfully unjust world,” +said Meg bitterly. + +“Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years, +and see if we don’t,” said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as +Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces. + +“Can’t wait, and I’m afraid I haven’t much faith in ink and dirt, +though I’m grateful for your good intentions.” + +Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and +leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy +spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, +said, smiling, “Two pleasant things are going to happen right away. +Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the +garden as if he had something nice to tell.” + +In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any letter from +Father, girls?” and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, “Won’t some of +you come for a drive? I’ve been working away at mathematics till my +head is in a muddle, and I’m going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. +It’s a dull day, but the air isn’t bad, and I’m going to take Brooke +home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth +will go, won’t you?” + +“Of course we will.” + +“Much obliged, but I’m busy.” And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for +she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not +to drive too often with the young gentleman. + +“We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away to wash +her hands. + +“Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie, leaning over +Mrs. March’s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave +her. + +“No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind, dear. +It’s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn’t been. Father is as +regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on the way, perhaps.” + +A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a +letter. + +“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said, handling it +as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage. + +At the word ‘telegraph’, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it +contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little +paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for +water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a +frightened voice... + +Mrs. March: +Your husband is very ill. Come at once. +S. HALE +Blank Hospital, Washington. + + +How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the +day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to +change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the +happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them. + +Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and +stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never +forgot, “I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, +children, help me to bear it!” + +For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the +room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, +and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first +to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good +example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions. + +“The Lord keep the dear man! I won’t waste no time a-cryin’, but git +your things ready right away, mum,” she said heartily, as she wiped her +face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her +own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one. + +“She’s right, there’s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me +think.” + +They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking +pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them. + +“Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected her +thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done. + +“Here, ma’am. Oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying from +the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow +was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see. + +“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early +in the morning. I’ll take that.” + +“What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,” he +said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth. + +“Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and paper.” + +Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew +the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad +journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to +add a little to the sum for her father. + +“Now go, dear, but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. +There is no need of that.” + +Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later +Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his +life. + +“Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can’t come. On the way +get these things. I’ll put them down, they’ll be needed and I must go +prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and +ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I’m not too proud +to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell +Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my +things, for I’m half bewildered.” + +Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the +poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little +while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust +of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if +the paper had been an evil spell. + +Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the +kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest +promises of protection for the girls during the mother’s absence, which +comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn’t offer, from his +own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible. +Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman’s undertaking the long +journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, +for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy +eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he’d be +back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran +through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea +in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke. + +“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind, +quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. “I +came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has +commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction +to be of service to her there.” + +Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg +put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke +would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling +one of time and comfort which he was about to take. + +“How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure, and it will be +such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank +you very, very much!” + +Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the +brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and +lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother. + +Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from +Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what +she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd +for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come +of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs. +March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on +with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo +would have understood if she had been there. + +The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and +her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got +tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a ‘slap and a +bang’, but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie +went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her +head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer +expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, +satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did +the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little +choke in her voice, “That’s my contribution toward making Father +comfortable and bringing him home!” + +“My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you +haven’t done anything rash?” + +“No, it’s mine honestly. I didn’t beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned +it, and I don’t think you’ll blame me, for I only sold what was my +own.” + +As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for +all her abundant hair was cut short. + +“Your hair! Your beautiful hair!” “Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one +beauty.” “My dear girl, there was no need of this.” “She doesn’t look +like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!” + +As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo +assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, +and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked +it, “It doesn’t affect the fate of the nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It +will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will +do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously +light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, +which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I’m +satisfied, so please take the money and let’s have supper.” + +“Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can’t blame +you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call +it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I’m afraid +you will regret it one of these days,” said Mrs. March. + +“No, I won’t!” returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her +prank was not entirely condemned. + +“What made you do it?” asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of +cutting off her head as her pretty hair. + +“Well, I was wild to do something for Father,” replied Jo, as they +gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the +midst of trouble. “I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew +Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence. +Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some +clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, +if I sold the nose off my face to get it.” + +“You needn’t feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got +the simplest with your own hard earnings,” said Mrs. March with a look +that warmed Jo’s heart. + +“I hadn’t the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went +along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I’d like to +dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber’s window +I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so +thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I +had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I +walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for +mine.” + +“I don’t see how you dared to do it,” said Beth in a tone of awe. + +“Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his +hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn’t used to having girls +bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn’t +care about mine, it wasn’t the fashionable color, and he never paid +much for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and +so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn’t done right +away that I shouldn’t have it done at all, and you know when I start to +do a thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told +him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed +his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my +topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, ‘Take it, +Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I’d do as much for our Jimmy any day +if I had a spire of hair worth selling.” + +“Who was Jimmy?” asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they +went along. + +“Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make +strangers feel, don’t they? She talked away all the time the man +clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.” + +“Didn’t you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?” asked Meg, with a +shiver. + +“I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that +was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will +confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on +the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost +seemed as if I’d an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and +picked out a long lock for me to keep. I’ll give it to you, Marmee, +just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don’t +think I shall ever have a mane again.” + +Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short +gray one in her desk. She only said, “Thank you, deary,” but something +in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully +as they could about Mr. Brooke’s kindness, the prospect of a fine day +tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to +be nursed. + +No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o’clock Mrs. March put by the +last finished job, and said, “Come girls.” Beth went to the piano and +played the father’s favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down +one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to +her music was always a sweet consoler. + +“Go to bed and don’t talk, for we must be up early and shall need all +the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,” said Mrs. March, as the +hymn ended, for no one cared to try another. + +They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear +invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of +the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious +thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and +her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her +exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek... + +“Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?” + +“No, not now.” + +“What then?” + +“My... My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her +emotion in the pillow. + +It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the +afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner. + +“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d do it again tomorrow, +if I could. It’s only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this +silly way. Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now. I thought you were +asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How +came you to be awake?” + +“I can’t sleep, I’m so anxious,” said Meg. + +“Think about something pleasant, and you’ll soon drop off.” + +“I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.” + +“What did you think of?” + +“Handsome faces—eyes particularly,” answered Meg, smiling to herself in +the dark. + +“What color do you like best?” + +“Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely.” + +Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably +promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in +her castle in the air. + +The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a +figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, +settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each +unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to +pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the +curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from +behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, +which seemed to whisper in the silence, “Be comforted, dear soul! There +is always light behind the clouds.” + + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN +LETTERS + + +In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter +with an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real +trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and +as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, +and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or +complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went +down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. +Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah’s familiar +face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap +on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother’s cloak and bonnet +lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so +pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it +very hard to keep their resolution. Meg’s eyes kept filling in spite of +herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more +than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as +if sorrow was a new experience to them. + +Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting +for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied +about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of +her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up +her travelling bag... + +“Children, I leave you to Hannah’s care and Mr. Laurence’s protection. +Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as +if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you +should take this trouble rightly. Don’t grieve and fret when I am gone, +or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and +trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed +solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you +never can be fatherless.” + +“Yes, Mother.” + +“Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in +any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don’t get +despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, +ready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, +and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you +can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home.” + +“We will, Mother! We will!” + +The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. +That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no +one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very +heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they +spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their +mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands +cheerfully when she drove away. + +Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke +looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him +‘Mr. Greatheart’ on the spot. + +“Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!” whispered Mrs. +March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried +into the carriage. + +As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it +shining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also, +and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she +turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a +bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie. + +“How kind everyone is to us!” she said, turning to find fresh proof of +it in the respectful sympathy of the young man’s face. + +“I don’t see how they can help it,” returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so +infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey +began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words. + +“I feel as if there had been an earthquake,” said Jo, as their +neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh +themselves. + +“It seems as if half the house was gone,” added Meg forlornly. + +Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile +of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother’s table, showing that even in +her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a +little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of +their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly. + +Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the +shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with +a coffeepot. + +“Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don’t fret. +Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let’s fall to work +and be a credit to the family.” + +Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that +morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant +invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the +table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes +were all right again. + +“‘Hope and keep busy’, that’s the motto for us, so let’s see who will +remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won’t she +lecture though!” said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit. + +“I shall go to my Kings, though I’d much rather stay at home and attend +to things here,” said Meg, wishing she hadn’t made her eyes so red. + +“No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,” put in +Amy, with an important air. + +“Hannah will tell us what to do, and we’ll have everything nice when +you come home,” added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without +delay. + +“I think anxiety is very interesting,” observed Amy, eating sugar +pensively. + +The girls couldn’t help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg +shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar +bowl. + +The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went +out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window +where they were accustomed to see their mother’s face. It was gone, but +Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, +nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin. + +“That’s so like my Beth!” said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful +face. “Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won’t strain today. Don’t fret +about Father, dear,” she added, as they parted. + +“And I hope Aunt March won’t croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks +very boyish and nice,” returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly +head, which looked comically small on her tall sister’s shoulders. + +“That’s my only comfort.” And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went +Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day. + +News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though +dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had +already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the +head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew +more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to +write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by +one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their +Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained +characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and +read them. + +My dearest Mother: + + +It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for +the news was so good we couldn’t help laughing and crying over it. How +very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence’s business +detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. +The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and +insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might +overdo, if I didn’t know her ‘moral fit’ wouldn’t last long. Beth is as +regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told +her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at +her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. +She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and +mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased +with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a +motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. +He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel +like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does +not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite +proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, +but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to +Father, and believe me, ever your own... + + +MEG + + +This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to +the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, +ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed +letters. + +My precious Marmee: + + +Three cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right +off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when +the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us, but I +could only cry, and say, “I’m glad! I’m glad!” Didn’t that do as well +as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such +funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately +good, it’s like living in a nest of turtledoves. You’d laugh to see Meg +head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, +and I’m in love with her sometimes. The children are regular +archangels, and I—well, I’m Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I +must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my +mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but +didn’t speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn’t come +again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn’t and got mad. It +lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are +both so proud, it’s hard to beg pardon. But I thought he’d come to it, +for I was in the right. He didn’t come, and just at night I remembered +what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt +better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to +tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same +thing. We both laughed, begged each other’s pardon, and felt all good +and comfortable again. + + +I made a ‘pome’ yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as +Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him +my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for +your... + + +TOPSY-TURVY JO + + +A SONG FROM THE SUDS + + +Queen of my tub, I merrily sing, +While the white foam rises high, +And sturdily wash and rinse and wring, +And fasten the clothes to dry. +Then out in the free fresh air they swing, +Under the sunny sky. + + +I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls +The stains of the week away, +And let water and air by their magic make +Ourselves as pure as they. +Then on the earth there would be indeed, +A glorious washing day! + + +Along the path of a useful life, +Will heart’s-ease ever bloom. +The busy mind has no time to think +Of sorrow or care or gloom. +And anxious thoughts may be swept away, +As we bravely wield a broom. + + +I am glad a task to me is given, +To labor at day by day, +For it brings me health and strength and hope, +And I cheerfully learn to say, +“Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel, +But, Hand, you shall work alway!” + + +Dear Mother, + + +There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies +from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. +I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep +with Father’s tune. I can’t sing ‘LAND OF THE LEAL’ now, it makes me +cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without +you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn’t forget to +cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day. + + +Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your +loving... + + +LITTLE BETH + + +Ma Chere Mamma, + + +We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the +girls—Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can +take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly +every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet +tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost +in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French +to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The +sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, +but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I +felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah +would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can’t +she? Didn’t I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my +punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear +me I have so many things to do, I can’t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of +love to Papa. Your affectionate daughter... + + +AMY CURTIS MARCH + + +Dear Mis March, + + +I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and +fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good +housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things +surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to +cal’k’late fust, and you never know where she’s like to bring up. She +done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched ’em afore they +was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a +died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of +help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn +everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps +accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical +so fur. I don’t let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to +your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well +without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. +Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down +frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The +old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means +wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at +this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he’s seen the last of +his Pewmonia. + + +Yours respectful, +Hannah Mullet + + +Head Nurse of Ward No. 2, + +All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary +department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on +duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, +Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket +duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of +good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at +headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is +heartily joined by... + +COLONEL TEDDY + + +Dear Madam: + + +The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is +a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine +weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if +expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything. +Thank God he is mending. + + +Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE + + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN +LITTLE FAITHFUL + + +For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied +the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a +heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved +of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed +their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old +ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy +seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt +that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many. + +Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, +and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March +didn’t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked +this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on +the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that +housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud +pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at +home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or +reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with +only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. + +All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her +sisters’ also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a +clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with +longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain +closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her +little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody +knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet +and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort +or advice in their small affairs. + +All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and +when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and +deserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do +well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret. + +“Meg, I wish you’d go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not +to forget them.” said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March’s departure. + +“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking comfortably +as she sewed. + +“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth. + +“Too stormy for me with my cold.” + +“I thought it was almost well.” + +“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to +go to the Hummels’,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of +her inconsistency. + +“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg. + +“I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don’t know what to +do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of +it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to +go.” + +Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow. + +“Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air +will do you good,” said Jo, adding apologetically, “I’d go but I want +to finish my writing.” + +“My head aches and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,” +said Beth. + +“Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,” suggested +Meg. + +So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and +the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went +to her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and +Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put +on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor +children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a +grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and +no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother’s room. +Half an hour after, Jo went to ‘Mother’s closet’ for something, and +there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very +grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand. + +“Christopher Columbus! What’s the matter?” cried Jo, as Beth put out +her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . . + +“You’ve had the scarlet fever, haven’t you?” + +“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?” + +“Then I’ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!” + +“What baby?” + +“Mrs. Hummel’s. It died in my lap before she got home,” cried Beth with +a sob. + +“My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,” said Jo, +taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother’s big +chair, with a remorseful face. + +“It wasn’t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker, +but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and +let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little +cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, +and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn’t stir, and I knew it was +dead.” + +“Don’t cry, dear! What did you do?” + +“I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. +He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore +throats. ‘Scarlet fever, ma’am. Ought to have called me before,’ he +said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure +baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to +help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and +was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned +round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right +away, or I’d have the fever.” + +“No, you won’t!” cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. +“Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What +shall we do?” + +“Don’t be frightened, I guess I shan’t have it badly. I looked in +Mother’s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and +queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel +better,” said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and +trying to look well. + +“If Mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and +feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked +at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, +“You’ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among +the others who are going to have it, so I’m afraid you are going to +have it, Beth. I’ll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.” + +“Don’t let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to +her. Can’t you and Meg have it over again?” asked Beth, anxiously. + +“I guess not. Don’t care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let +you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!” muttered Jo, as she went to +consult Hannah. + +The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, +assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, +and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt +much relieved as they went up to call Meg. + +“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Hannah, when she had examined +and questioned Beth, “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at +you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we’ll send Amy off to Aunt +March’s for a spell, to keep her out of harm’s way, and one of you +girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.” + +“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest,” began Meg, looking anxious and +self-reproachful. + +“I shall, because it’s my fault she is sick. I told Mother I’d do the +errands, and I haven’t,” said Jo decidedly. + +“Which will you have, Beth? There ain’t no need of but one,” aid +Hannah. + +“Jo, please.” And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a +contented look, which effectually settled that point. + +“I’ll go and tell Amy,” said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather +relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did. + +Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather +have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and +commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg +left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came +back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head +in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled, but +Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, +whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he +sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, “Now be a +sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don’t cry, but hear what +a jolly plan I’ve got. You go to Aunt March’s, and I’ll come and take +you out every day, driving or walking, and we’ll have capital times. +Won’t that be better than moping here?” + +“I don’t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,” began Amy, in an +injured voice. + +“Bless your heart, child, it’s to keep you well. You don’t want to be +sick, do you?” + +“No, I’m sure I don’t, but I dare say I shall be, for I’ve been with +Beth all the time.” + +“That’s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may +escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if +it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise +you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.” + +“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,” said Amy, looking +rather frightened. + +“It won’t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, +and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I’ll be as +sweet as possible to her, so she won’t peck at us, whatever we do.” + +“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?” + +“On my honor as a gentleman.” + +“And come every single day?” + +“See if I don’t!” + +“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?” + +“The identical minute.” + +“And go to the theater, truly?” + +“A dozen theaters, if we may.” + +“Well—I guess I will,” said Amy slowly. + +“Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said Laurie, with +an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the ‘giving in’. + +Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been +wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised +to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill. + +“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet, +and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show. + +“She is lying down on Mother’s bed, and feels better. The baby’s death +troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she +thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,” answered +Meg. + +“What a trying world it is!” said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful +way. “No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. +There doesn’t seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother’s gone, so +I’m all at sea.” + +“Well, don’t make a porcupine of yourself, it isn’t becoming. Settle +your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do +anything?” asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of +his friend’s one beauty. + +“That is what troubles me,” said Meg. “I think we ought to tell her if +Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn’t, for Mother can’t leave +Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won’t be sick long, +and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her, +so I suppose we must, but it doesn’t seem quite right to me.” + +“Hum, well, I can’t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor +has been.” + +“We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,” commanded Meg. “We can’t +decide anything till he has been.” + +“Stay where you are, Jo. I’m errand boy to this establishment,” said +Laurie, taking up his cap. + +“I’m afraid you are busy,” began Meg. + +“No, I’ve done my lessons for the day.” + +“Do you study in vacation time?” asked Jo. + +“I follow the good example my neighbors set me,” was Laurie’s answer, +as he swung himself out of the room. + +“I have great hopes for my boy,” observed Jo, watching him fly over the +fence with an approving smile. + +“He does very well, for a boy,” was Meg’s somewhat ungracious answer, +for the subject did not interest her. + +Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she +would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. +Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off +danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort. + +Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality. + +“What do you want now?” she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, +while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out... + +“Go away. No boys allowed here.” + +Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story. + +“No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among +poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn’t sick, +which I’ve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don’t cry, child, +it worries me to hear people sniff.” + +Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot’s +tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out, +“Bless my boots!” in such a funny way, that she laughed instead. + +“What do you hear from your mother?” asked the old lady gruffly. + +“Father is much better,” replied Jo, trying to keep sober. + +“Oh, is he? Well, that won’t last long, I fancy. March never had any +stamina,” was the cheerful reply. + +“Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!” +squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady’s cap +as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. + +“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you’d better go +at once. It isn’t proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated +boy like...” + +“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly, tumbling +off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the ‘rattlepated’ boy, +who was shaking with laughter at the last speech. + +“I don’t think I can bear it, but I’ll try,” thought Amy, as she was +left alone with Aunt March. + +“Get along, you fright!” screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy +could not restrain a sniff. + + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN +DARK DAYS + + +Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and +the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. +Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own +way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the +excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, +and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote +letters in which no mention was made of Beth’s illness. She could not +think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind +Hannah, and Hannah wouldn’t hear of ‘Mrs. March bein’ told, and worried +just for sech a trifle.’ + +Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was +very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could +control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she +began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if +on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen +that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar +faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called +imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be +allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she ‘would think of +it, though there was no danger yet’. A letter from Washington added to +their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of +coming home for a long while. + +How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how +heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while +the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that +Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how +rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could +buy—in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. +Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering +little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding +in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth’s +nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, +and to acknowledge the worth of Beth’s unselfish ambition to live for +others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues +which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than +talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be +at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service +would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how +many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie +haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the +grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young +neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone +missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she +did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to +get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and +good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find +how many friends shy little Beth had made. + +Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in +her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for +her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, +and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent +loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write +soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that +Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these +intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing +to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy +sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, +Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to +send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth’s side. + +The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter +wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its +death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held +the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, +saying, in a low voice to Hannah, “If Mrs. March can leave her husband +she’d better be sent for.” + +Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg +dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs +at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a +minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on +her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while +noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying +that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy +weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of +misery that Laurie asked quickly, “What is it? Is Beth worse?” + +“I’ve sent for Mother,” said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a +tragic expression. + +“Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?” asked +Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious +boots, seeing how her hands shook. + +“No. The doctor told us to.” + +“Oh, Jo, it’s not so bad as that?” cried Laurie, with a startled face. + +“Yes, it is. She doesn’t know us, she doesn’t even talk about the +flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She +doesn’t look like my Beth, and there’s nobody to help us bear it. +Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can’t find +Him.” + +As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her +hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie +took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his +throat, “I’m here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!” + +She could not speak, but she did ‘hold on’, and the warm grasp of the +friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her +nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. + +Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting +words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as +her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far +more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken +sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection +administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, +and looked up with a grateful face. + +“Thank you, Teddy, I’m better now. I don’t feel so forlorn, and will +try to bear it if it comes.” + +“Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother +will be here, and then everything will be all right.” + +“I’m so glad Father is better. Now she won’t feel so bad about leaving +him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I +got the heaviest part on my shoulders,” sighed Jo, spreading her wet +handkerchief over her knees to dry. + +“Doesn’t Meg pull fair?” asked Laurie, looking indignant. + +“Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can’t love Bethy as I do, and she won’t +miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can’t give her up. I +can’t! I can’t!” + +Down went Jo’s face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried +despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a +tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he +had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It +might be unmanly, but he couldn’t help it, and I am glad of it. +Presently, as Jo’s sobs quieted, he said hopefully, “I don’t think she +will die. She’s so good, and we all love her so much, I don’t believe +God will take her away yet.” + +“The good and dear people always do die,” groaned Jo, but she stopped +crying, for her friend’s words cheered her up in spite of her own +doubts and fears. + +“Poor girl, you’re worn out. It isn’t like you to be forlorn. Stop a +bit. I’ll hearten you up in a jiffy.” + +Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down +on Beth’s little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from +the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the +submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when +Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a +smile, and said bravely, “I drink— Health to my Beth! You are a good +doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?” +she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done +her troubled mind. + +“I’ll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I’ll give you something that +will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine,” said +Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at +something. + +“What is it?” cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder. + +“I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she’d come +at once, and she’ll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. +Aren’t you glad I did it?” + +Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for +he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or +harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the +moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms +round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, “Oh, Laurie! Oh, +Mother! I am so glad!” She did not weep again, but laughed +hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a +little bewildered by the sudden news. + +Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. +He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, +followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at +once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying +breathlessly, “Oh, don’t! I didn’t mean to, it was dreadful of me, but +you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn’t +help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don’t give me wine again, +it makes me act so.” + +“I don’t mind,” laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. “Why, you see I +got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the +authority business, and your mother ought to know. She’d never forgive +us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to +say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office +yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head +off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be ‘lorded over’, +so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, +and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you’ve +only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that +blessed lady gets here.” + +“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?” + +“Fly at me again. I rather liked it,” said Laurie, looking mischievous, +a thing he had not done for a fortnight. + +“No, thank you. I’ll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don’t +tease, but go home and rest, for you’ll be up half the night. Bless +you, Teddy, bless you!” + +Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she +vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a +dresser and told the assembled cats that she was “happy, oh, so happy!” +while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of +it. + +“That’s the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do +hope Mrs. March is coming right away,” said Hannah, with an air of +relief, when Jo told the good news. + +Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set +the sickroom in order, and Hannah “knocked up a couple of pies in case +of company unexpected”. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through +the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet +rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth’s bird +began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy’s +bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, +and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as +they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, “Mother’s coming, +dear! Mother’s coming!” Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that +heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It +was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once +busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and +the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the +pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, +“Water!” with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All day +Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in +God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and +the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the +clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, +looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help +nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or +worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would +return. + +Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed’s foot and fell +fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling +that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March’s countenance +as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring +into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes +beautifully soft and clear. + +The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they +kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes +to us in hours like those. + +“If God spares Beth, I never will complain again,” whispered Meg +earnestly. + +“If God spares Beth, I’ll try to love and serve Him all my life,” +answered Jo, with equal fervor. + +“I wish I had no heart, it aches so,” sighed Meg, after a pause. + +“If life is often as hard as this, I don’t see how we ever shall get +through it,” added her sister despondently. + +Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching +Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was +still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep +hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale +shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and +nothing happened except Laurie’s quiet departure for the station. +Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the +storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at +Washington, haunted the girls. + +It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary +the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the +bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy +chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as +she thought, “Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.” + +She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great +change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain +were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in +its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning +low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with +her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, “Good-by, my Beth. +Good-by!” + +As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to +the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and +then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, +exclaiming, under her breath, “The fever’s turned, she’s sleepin’ +nat’ral, her skin’s damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, +my goodness me!” + +Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to +confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite +heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, “Yes, +my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the +house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her...” + +What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark +hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with +hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled +by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her +cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing +quietly, as if just fallen asleep. + +“If Mother would only come now!” said Jo, as the winter night began to +wane. + +“See,” said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, “I thought +this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth’s hand tomorrow if she—went +away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put +it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she +sees will be the little rose, and Mother’s face.” + +Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed +so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out +in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. + +“It looks like a fairy world,” said Meg, smiling to herself, as she +stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. + +“Hark!” cried Jo, starting to her feet. + +Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, +and then Laurie’s voice saying in a joyful whisper, “Girls, she’s come! +She’s come!” + + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN +AMY’S WILL + + +While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at +Aunt March’s. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her +life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March +never petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be +kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt +March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew’s children, +though she didn’t think it proper to confess it. She really did her +best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old +people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can +sympathize with children’s little cares and joys, make them feel at +home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and +receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this +gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim +ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable +than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, +as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So +she took Amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught +sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amy’s soul, and made +her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider. + +She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned +spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone. Then +she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck +escaped Aunt March’s eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much +carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed, the +lap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or +deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big +chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was +a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one +hour for exercise or play, and didn’t she enjoy it? + +Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to +go out with him, when they walked and rode and had capital times. After +dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, +which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first +page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward +meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse +herself as she liked till teatime. The evenings were the worst of all, +for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were +so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending +to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had +squeezed out more than a tear or two. + +If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that +she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone +was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not +admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. +He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk +to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by +pecking at him while Madam dozed, called her names before company, and +behaved in all respects like an reprehensible old bird. Then she could +not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast who snarled and yelped at her +when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back with all his legs in +the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted +something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was +bad-tempered, the old coachman was deaf, and Esther the only one who +ever took any notice of the young lady. + +Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with ‘Madame’, as she called +her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old +lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, +but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition +that she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to +Mademoiselle, and amused her very much with odd stories of her life in +France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame’s laces. She also +allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and +pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests, +for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy’s chief delight was an Indian +cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places, +in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely +curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things +gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which on +velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty +years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came +out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover’s +diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with +portraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside, the +baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, Uncle March’s big +watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in +a box all by itself lay Aunt March’s wedding ring, too small now for +her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of +them all. + +“Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?” asked Esther, +who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables. + +“I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I’m +fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I +might,” replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold +and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same. + +“I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace. Ah, no! To me it is a +rosary, and as such I should use it like a good catholic,” said Esther, +eyeing the handsome thing wistfully. + +“Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads +hanging over your glass?” asked Amy. + +“Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one +used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou.” + +“You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and +always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could.” + +“If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort, but as +that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day to +meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before +Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much +trouble.” + +“Would it be right for me to do so too?” asked Amy, who in her +loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was +apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind +her of it. + +“It would be excellent and charming, and I shall gladly arrange the +little dressing room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but +when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, +and pray the dear God preserve your sister.” + +Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an +affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy +liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her +room, hoping it would do her good. + +“I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March +dies,” she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the +jewel cases one by one. + +“To you and your sisters. I know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed +her will, and it is to be so,” whispered Esther smiling. + +“How nice! But I wish she’d let us have them now. Procrastination is +not agreeable,” observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds. + +“It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The +first one who is affianced will have the pearls, Madame has said it, +and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you +when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming +manners.” + +“Do you think so? Oh, I’ll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely +ring! It’s ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant’s. I do like Aunt +March after all.” And Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face +and a firm resolve to earn it. + +From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady +complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the +closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a +picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no +great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that +Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a +very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and +Amy’s beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet +face of the Divine Mother, while her tender thoughts of her own were +busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little testament and +hymnbook, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought +her, and came every day to ‘sit alone’ thinking good thoughts, and +praying the dear God to preserve her sister. Esther had given her a +rosary of black beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did +not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers. + +The little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone +outside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold +by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender +Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds His little children. +She missed her mother’s help to understand and rule herself, but having +been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way and walk in +it confidingly. But, Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden +seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and +be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. +In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her +will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her +possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang +even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were +as precious as the old lady’s jewels. + +During one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as +well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal +terms, and when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy +felt relieved and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a +second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse +herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for +company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned +costumes with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite +amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and +down before the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her +train about with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on +this day that she did not hear Laurie’s ring nor see his face peeping +in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and +tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting +oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was +obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as +Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along +in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, +imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh +or exclaim, “Ain’t we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! +Kiss me, dear! Ha! Ha!” + +Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it +should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped and was graciously received. + +“Sit down and rest while I put these things away, then I want to +consult you about a very serious matter,” said Amy, when she had shown +her splendor and driven Polly into a corner. “That bird is the trial of +my life,” she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, +while Laurie seated himself astride a chair. + +“Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep and I was trying to be as still as a +mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so I went to +let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran +under the bookcase. Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and +peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his +eye, ‘Come out and take a walk, my dear.’ I couldn’t help laughing, +which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.” + +“Did the spider accept the old fellow’s invitation?” asked Laurie, +yawning. + +“Yes, out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and +scrambled up on Aunt’s chair, calling out, ‘Catch her! Catch her! Catch +her!’ as I chased the spider.” + +“That’s a lie! Oh, lor!” cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie’s toes. + +“I’d wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,” cried Laurie, +shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely +croaked, “Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!” + +“Now I’m ready,” said Amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of +paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and tell me +if it is legal and right. I felt I ought to do it, for life is +uncertain and I don’t want any ill feeling over my tomb.” + +Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, +read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the +spelling: + +MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT + + +I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, go give and bequeethe all +my earthly property—viz. to wit:—namely + + +To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, +including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with. + + +To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets—also +my likeness, and my medal, with much love. + + +To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), +also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for +her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her ‘little girl’. + + +To Jo I leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my +bronze inkstand—she lost the cover—and my most precious plaster rabbit, +because I am sorry I burned up her story. + + +To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, +my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being +thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I +ever made fun of old Joanna. + + +To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper mashay +portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn’t any +neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction +any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best. + + +To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a +looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind +him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, +especially Beth. + + +I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron +and my gold-bead ring with a kiss. + + +To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork I leave +hoping she ‘will remember me, when it you see’. + + +And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be +satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may +all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen. + + +To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of +Nov. Anni Domino 1861. + + +Amy Curtis March + + +Witnesses: + + +Estelle Valnor, Theodore Laurence. + + +The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to +rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly. + +“What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth’s giving +away her things?” asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, +with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him. + +She explained and then asked anxiously, “What about Beth?” + +“I’m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so ill one +day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to +you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She +was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest +of us, and her best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will.” + +Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a +great tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of trouble, but +she only said, “Don’t people put sort of postscripts to their wills, +sometimes?” + +“Yes, ‘codicils’, they call them.” + +“Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given +round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will +spoil my looks.” + +Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he +amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But +when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, +“Is there really any danger about Beth?” + +“I’m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don’t cry, +dear.” And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which +was very comforting. + +When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the +twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, +feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the +loss of her gentle little sister. + + + + +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.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE +LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE + + +Jo’s face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, +and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg +observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had +learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so +she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was +rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo +assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn +assumed an air of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother. +This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March had taken her place as +nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long +confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much as +she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was +an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from +her. + +She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a +mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of +it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected +indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he +knew, then that he didn’t care; and at last, by dint of perseverance, +he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling +indignant that he was not taken into his tutor’s confidence, he set his +wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight. + +Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in +preparations for her father’s return, but all of a sudden a change +seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike +herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very +quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her +face. To her mother’s inquiries she answered that she was quite well, +and Jo’s she silenced by begging to be let alone. + +“She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she’s going very fast. She’s +got most of the symptoms—is twittery and cross, doesn’t eat, lies +awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave +her, and once she said ‘John’, as you do, and then turned as red as a +poppy. Whatever shall we do?” said Jo, looking ready for any measures, +however violent. + +“Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father’s +coming will settle everything,” replied her mother. + +“Here’s a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals +mine,” said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little +post office. + +Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg +made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened +face. + +“My child, what is it?” cried her mother, running to her, while Jo +tried to take the paper which had done the mischief. + +“It’s all a mistake, he didn’t send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?” +and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite +broken. + +“Me! I’ve done nothing! What’s she talking about?” cried Jo, +bewildered. + +Meg’s mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from +her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, “You wrote it, and +that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel +to us both?” + +Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, +which was written in a peculiar hand. + +“My Dearest Margaret, + + +“I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I +return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would +consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help +me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. +I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word +of hope through Laurie to, + + +“Your devoted John.” + + +“Oh, the little villain! That’s the way he meant to pay me for keeping +my word to Mother. I’ll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over +to beg pardon,” cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her +mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore... + +“Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many +pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.” + +“On my word, Mother, I haven’t! I never saw that note before, and don’t +know anything about it, as true as I live!” said Jo, so earnestly that +they believed her. “If I had taken part in it I’d have done it better +than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you’d have +known Mr. Brooke wouldn’t write such stuff as that,” she added, +scornfully tossing down the paper. + +“It’s like his writing,” faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in +her hand. + +“Oh, Meg, you didn’t answer it?” cried Mrs. March quickly. + +“Yes, I did!” and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame. + +“Here’s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and +be lectured. I can’t rest till I get hold of him.” And Jo made for the +door again. + +“Hush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, +tell me the whole story,” commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, +yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off. + +“I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn’t look as if he knew +anything about it,” began Meg, without looking up. “I was worried at +first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr. +Brooke, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I kept my little secret for a +few days. I’m so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I +was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such +things to do. Forgive me, Mother, I’m paid for my silliness now. I +never can look him in the face again.” + +“What did you say to him?” asked Mrs. March. + +“I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn’t +wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very +grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, +for a long while.” + +Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, +exclaiming, with a laugh, “You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who +was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?” + +“He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent +any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, +should take liberties with our names. It’s very kind and respectful, +but think how dreadful for me!” + +Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo +tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she +stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, +said decidedly, “I don’t believe Brooke ever saw either of these +letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because +I wouldn’t tell him my secret.” + +“Don’t have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble, +as I should have done,” said Meg warningly. + +“Bless you, child! Mother told me.” + +“That will do, Jo. I’ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I +shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at +once.” + +Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke’s real feelings. +“Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he +can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the +present?” + +“I’ve been so scared and worried, I don’t want to have anything to do +with lovers for a long while, perhaps never,” answered Meg petulantly. +“If John doesn’t know anything about this nonsense, don’t tell him, and +make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won’t be deceived and plagued +and made a fool of. It’s a shame!” + +Seeing Meg’s usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by +this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire +silence and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie’s step +was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received +the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he +wouldn’t come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March’s face, and +stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once. +Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a +sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of +voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened +during that interview the girls never knew. + +When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such +a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it +wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much +comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke. + +“I’ll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan’t drag it out of +me, so you’ll forgive me, Meg, and I’ll do anything to show how +out-and-out sorry I am,” he added, looking very much ashamed of +himself. + +“I’ll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn’t think +you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,” replied Meg, trying to hide +her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air. + +“It was altogether abominable, and I don’t deserve to be spoken to for +a month, but you will, though, won’t you?” And Laurie folded his hands +together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his +irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him +in spite of his scandalous behavior. + +Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March’s grave face relaxed, in spite of her +efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone +for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm +before the injured damsel. + +Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and +succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire +disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed +no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till +the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked +off without a word. + +As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and +when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for +Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and +armed with a book to return, went over to the big house. + +“Is Mr. Laurence in?” asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming +downstairs. + +“Yes, Miss, but I don’t believe he’s seeable just yet.” + +“Why not? Is he ill?” + +“La, no Miss, but he’s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of +his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I +dursn’t go nigh him.” + +“Where is Laurie?” + +“Shut up in his room, and he won’t answer, though I’ve been a-tapping. +I don’t know what’s to become of the dinner, for it’s ready, and +there’s no one to eat it.” + +“I’ll go and see what the matter is. I’m not afraid of either of them.” + +Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie’s little study. + +“Stop that, or I’ll open the door and make you!” called out the young +gentleman in a threatening tone. + +Jo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced +before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really +was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite +expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, +“Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can’t +go away till I have.” + +“It’s all right. Get up, and don’t be a goose, Jo,” was the cavalier +reply to her petition. + +“Thank you, I will. Could I ask what’s the matter? You don’t look +exactly easy in your mind.” + +“I’ve been shaken, and I won’t bear it!” growled Laurie indignantly. + +“Who did it?” demanded Jo. + +“Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I’d have...” And the injured +youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm. + +“That’s nothing. I often shake you, and you don’t mind,” said Jo +soothingly. + +“Pooh! You’re a girl, and it’s fun, but I’ll allow no man to shake me!” + +“I don’t think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like +a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?” + +“Just because I wouldn’t say what your mother wanted me for. I’d +promised not to tell, and of course I wasn’t going to break my word.” + +“Couldn’t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?” + +“No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the +truth. I’d have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing +Meg in. As I couldn’t, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the +old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget +myself.” + +“It wasn’t nice, but he’s sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I’ll +help you.” + +“Hanged if I do! I’m not going to be lectured and pummelled by +everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged +pardon like a man, but I won’t do it again, when I wasn’t in the +wrong.” + +“He didn’t know that.” + +“He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It’s no use, Jo, +he’s got to learn that I’m able to take care of myself, and don’t need +anyone’s apron string to hold on by.” + +“What pepper pots you are!” sighed Jo. “How do you mean to settle this +affair?” + +“Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can’t tell +him what the fuss’s about.” + +“Bless you! He won’t do that.” + +“I won’t go down till he does.” + +“Now, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and I’ll explain what I can. You +can’t stay here, so what’s the use of being melodramatic?” + +“I don’t intend to stay here long, anyway. I’ll slip off and take a +journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he’ll come round fast +enough.” + +“I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him.” + +“Don’t preach. I’ll go to Washington and see Brooke. It’s gay there, +and I’ll enjoy myself after the troubles.” + +“What fun you’d have! I wish I could run off too,” said Jo, forgetting +her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital. + +“Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I’ll stir +up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let’s do it, Jo. We’ll +leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I’ve got +money enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your +father.” + +For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was, +it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for +change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel +charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as +they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house +opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision. + +“If I was a boy, we’d run away together, and have a capital time, but +as I’m a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Don’t tempt +me, Teddy, it’s a crazy plan.” + +“That’s the fun of it,” began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him +and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way. + +“Hold your tongue!” cried Jo, covering her ears. “‘Prunes and prisms’ +are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to +moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of.” + +“I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had +more spirit,” began Laurie insinuatingly. + +“Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don’t go +making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the +shaking, will you give up running away?” asked Jo seriously. + +“Yes, but you won’t do it,” answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but +felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first. + +“If I can manage the young one, I can the old one,” muttered Jo, as she +walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head +propped up on both hands. + +“Come in!” and Mr. Laurence’s gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as +Jo tapped at his door. + +“It’s only me, Sir, come to return a book,” she said blandly, as she +entered. + +“Want any more?” asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but +trying not to show it. + +“Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I’ll try the second +volume,” returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second +dose of Boswell’s Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work. + +The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the +shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and +sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was +really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her +visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her +mind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced +round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward +on the floor. + +“What has that boy been about? Don’t try to shield him. I know he has +been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can’t get a +word from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he +bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room.” + +“He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word +to anyone,” began Jo reluctantly. + +“That won’t do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you +softhearted girls. If he’s done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg +pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I won’t be kept in the dark.” + +Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have +gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, +and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and +brave it out. + +“Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, +asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don’t keep silence to +shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you +interfere. Please don’t. It was partly my fault, but it’s all right +now. So let’s forget it, and talk about the _Rambler_ or something +pleasant.” + +“Hang the _Rambler!_ Come down and give me your word that this +harum-scarum boy of mine hasn’t done anything ungrateful or +impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I’ll thrash him +with my own hands.” + +The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the +irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, +whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and +made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or +forgetting the truth. + +“Hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and +not from obstinacy, I’ll forgive him. He’s a stubborn fellow and hard +to manage,” said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if +he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with +an air of relief. + +“So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king’s horses and +all the king’s men couldn’t,” said Jo, trying to say a kind word for +her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into +another. + +“You think I’m not kind to him, hey?” was the sharp answer. + +“Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a +trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don’t you think you are?” + +Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, +though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief +and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the +table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, “You’re right, girl, I am! I +love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how it +will end, if we go on so.” + +“I’ll tell you, he’ll run away.” Jo was sorry for that speech the +minute it was made. She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear +much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad. + +Mr. Laurence’s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a +troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his +table. It was Laurie’s father, who had run away in his youth, and +married against the imperious old man’s will. Jo fancied he remembered +and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue. + +“He won’t do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it +sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like +to, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may +advertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for India.” + +She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently +taking the whole as a joke. + +“You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where’s your respect for me, +and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments +they are, yet we can’t do without them,” he said, pinching her cheeks +good-humoredly. “Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him +it’s all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his +grandfather. I won’t bear it.” + +“He won’t come, Sir. He feels badly because you didn’t believe him when +he said he couldn’t tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very +much.” + +Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began +to laugh, and she knew the day was won. + +“I’m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I +suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?” and the old +gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness. + +“If I were you, I’d write him an apology, Sir. He says he won’t come +down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an +absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and +bring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes fun, and this way is +better than talking. I’ll carry it up, and teach him his duty.” + +Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying +slowly, “You’re a sly puss, but I don’t mind being managed by you and +Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this +nonsense.” + +The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to +another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top +of Mr. Laurence’s bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under +Laurie’s door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive, +decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door +locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly +away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for +her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of +countenance, “What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?” he +added, laughing. + +“No, he was pretty mild, on the whole.” + +“Ah! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt +just ready to go to the deuce,” he began apologetically. + +“Don’t talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my +son.” + +“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil +my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an +end,” he said dolefully. + +“Go and eat your dinner, you’ll feel better after it. Men always croak +when they are hungry,” and Jo whisked out at the front door after that. + +“That’s a ‘label’ on my ‘sect’,” answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he +went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was +quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the +rest of the day. + +Everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over, but +the mischief was done, for though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She +never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, +dreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her sister’s desk +for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, ‘Mrs. +John Brooke’, whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire, +feeling that Laurie’s prank had hastened the evil day for her. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO +PLEASANT MEADOWS + + +Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The +invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning +early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all +day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and in time +with doll’s sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active +limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing +about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned +her white hands cooking delicate messes for ‘the dear’, while Amy, a +loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many +of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept. + +As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, +and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible +or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry +Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had +bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. +After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered +effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were +rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together. + +Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid +Christmas Day. Hannah ‘felt in her bones’ that it was going to be an +unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for +everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To +begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth +felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother’s +gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the +window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had +done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had +worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden +stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of +fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a +perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a +Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer. + +THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH + + +God bless you, dear Queen Bess! +May nothing you dismay, +But health and peace and happiness +Be yours, this Christmas day. + + +Here’s fruit to feed our busy bee, +And flowers for her nose. +Here’s music for her pianee, +An afghan for her toes, + + +A portrait of Joanna, see, +By Raphael No. 2, +Who laboured with great industry +To make it fair and true. + + +Accept a ribbon red, I beg, +For Madam Purrer’s tail, +And ice cream made by lovely Peg, +A Mont Blanc in a pail. + + +Their dearest love my makers laid +Within my breast of snow. +Accept it, and the Alpine maid, +From Laurie and from Jo. + + +How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring +in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented +them. + +“I’m so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn’t +hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo +carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to +refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the ‘Jungfrau’ had +sent her. + +“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the +long-desired _Undine and Sintram_. + +“I’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the +Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame. + +“Of course I am!” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first +silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. “How can I be +otherwise?” said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her +husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face, and her hand caressed the +brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the +girls had just fastened on her breast. + +Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the +delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour +after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one +drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his +head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault +and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed +excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped +up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “Here’s another +Christmas present for the March family.” + +Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away +somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, +leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and +couldn’t. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several +minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things +were done, and no one said a word. + +Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. +Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by +Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, +as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled +over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her +father’s boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to +recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, “Hush! Remember +Beth.” + +But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper +appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and +Beth ran straight into her father’s arms. Never mind what happened just +after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness +of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present. + +It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight +again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat +turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the +kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke +for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly +remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he +precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, +which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard. + +Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the +fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage +of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most +estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just +there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, +looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you +to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked, +rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t like to have something to eat. Jo saw +and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and +beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, “I hate +estimable young men with brown eyes!” + +There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat +turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, +browned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one’s +mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a +honeypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, +“For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it’s a merrycle I didn’t +roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin’ +of it in a cloth.” + +Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom +Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie’s infinite amusement. Two easy chairs +stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her +father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank +healths, told stories, sang songs, ‘reminisced’, as the old folks say, +and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the +girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and +as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire. + +“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected +to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had +followed a long conversation about many things. + +“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling at the fire, +and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity. + +“I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, watching the light +shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes. + +“I’m glad it’s over, because we’ve got you back,” whispered Beth, who +sat on her father’s knee. + +“Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially +the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the +burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,” said Mr. March, +looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered +round him. + +“How do you know? Did Mother tell you?” asked Jo. + +“Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I’ve made several +discoveries today.” + +“Oh, tell us what they are!” cried Meg, who sat beside him. + +“Here is one.” And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his +chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and +two or three little hard spots on the palm. “I remember a time when +this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. +It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this +seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been +made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than +blisters, and I’m sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will +last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my +dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white +hands or fashionable accomplishments. I’m proud to shake this good, +industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it +away.” + +If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it +in the hearty pressure of her father’s hand and the approving smile he +gave her. + +“What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard +and been so very, very good to me,” said Beth in her father’s ear. + +He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an +unusually mild expression in her face. + +“In spite of the curly crop, I don’t see the ‘son Jo’ whom I left a +year ago,” said Mr. March. “I see a young lady who pins her collar +straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, +nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale +just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it +has grown gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn’t bounce, but +moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly +way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a +strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite +satisfied. I don’t know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, +but I do know that in all Washington I couldn’t find anything beautiful +enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent +me.” + +Jo’s keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew +rosy in the firelight as she received her father’s praise, feeling that +she did deserve a portion of it. + +“Now, Beth,” said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait. + +“There’s so little of her, I’m afraid to say much, for fear she will +slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,” +began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost +her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his +own, “I’ve got you safe, my Beth, and I’ll keep you so, please God.” + +After a minute’s silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket +at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair... + +“I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her +mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on +every one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does +not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very +pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to +think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try +and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay +figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a +graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable +daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and +others.” + +“What are you thinking of, Beth?” asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her +father and told about her ring. + +“I read in _Pilgrim’s Progress_ today how, after many troubles, +Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies +bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, +before they went on to their journey’s end,” answered Beth, adding, as +she slipped out of her father’s arms and went to the instrument, “It’s +singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I’ll try to sing +the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music +for Father, because he likes the verses.” + +So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and +in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her +own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song +for her. + +He that is down need fear no fall, +He that is low no pride. +He that is humble ever shall +Have God to be his guide. + + +I am content with what I have, +Little be it, or much. +And, Lord! Contentment still I crave, +Because Thou savest such. + + +Fulness to them a burden is, +That go on pilgrimage. +Here little, and hereafter bliss, +Is best from age to age! + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE +AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION + + +Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered +about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait +upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed +by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth’s sofa, with +the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then +‘to peek at the dear man’, nothing seemed needed to complete their +happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though +none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with +an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits +of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke’s umbrella, +which had been left in the hall. Meg was absent-minded, shy, and +silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John’s name was +mentioned. Amy said, “Everyone seemed waiting for something, and +couldn’t settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,” +and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn’t run over as +usual. + +Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed +suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one +knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands +imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave +himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, +and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair. + +“What does the goose mean?” said Meg, laughing and trying to look +unconscious. + +“He’s showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isn’t +it?” answered Jo scornfully. + +“Don’t say my John, it isn’t proper or true,” but Meg’s voice lingered +over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. “Please don’t plague +me, Jo, I’ve told you I don’t care much about him, and there isn’t to +be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before.” + +“We can’t, for something has been said, and Laurie’s mischief has +spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your +old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don’t mean to +plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all +settled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and +have it over quickly,” said Jo pettishly. + +“I can’t say anything till he speaks, and he won’t, because Father said +I was too young,” began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little +smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on +that point. + +“If he did speak, you wouldn’t know what to say, but would cry or +blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided +no.” + +“I’m not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say, +for I’ve planned it all, so I needn’t be taken unawares. There’s no +knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared.” + +Jo couldn’t help smiling at the important air which Meg had +unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color +varying in her cheeks. + +“Would you mind telling me what you’d say?” asked Jo more respectfully. + +“Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant, +and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own +affairs of this sort.” + +“Don’t mean to have any. It’s fun to watch other people philander, but +I should feel like a fool doing it myself,” said Jo, looking alarmed at +the thought. + +“I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you.” Meg +spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often +seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight. + +“I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,” said Jo, +rudely shortening her sister’s little reverie. + +“Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, ‘Thank you, Mr. +Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young +to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let +us be friends as we were.’” + +“Hum, that’s stiff and cool enough! I don’t believe you’ll ever say it, +and I know he won’t be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the +rejected lovers in books, you’ll give in, rather than hurt his +feelings.” + +“No, I won’t. I shall tell him I’ve made up my mind, and shall walk out +of the room with dignity.” + +Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified +exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to +sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam +in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when +someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was +anything but hospitable. + +“Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your +father finds himself today,” said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused +as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other. + +“It’s very well, he’s in the rack. I’ll get him, and tell it you are +here.” And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in +her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her +speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to +sidle toward the door, murmuring... + +“Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I’ll call her.” + +“Don’t go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?” and Mr. Brooke looked so +hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She +blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called +her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and +sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at +her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said +gratefully... + +“How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish +I could thank you for it.” + +“Shall I tell you how?” asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast +in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown +eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away +and to stop and listen. + +“Oh no, please don’t, I’d rather not,” she said, trying to withdraw her +hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial. + +“I won’t trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, +Meg. I love you so much, dear,” added Mr. Brooke tenderly. + +This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn’t make +it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, “I don’t +know,” so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish +little reply. + +He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself +as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in +his most persuasive tone, “Will you try and find out? I want to know so +much, for I can’t go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am +to have my reward in the end or not.” + +“I’m too young,” faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet +rather enjoying it. + +“I’ll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. +Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?” + +“Not if I chose to learn it, but. . .” + +“Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than +German,” broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that +she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it. + +His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg +saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the +satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled +her. Annie Moffat’s foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and +the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little +women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt +excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a +capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, “I +don’t choose. Please go away and let me be!” + +Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling +about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it +rather bewildered him. + +“Do you really mean that?” he asked anxiously, following her as she +walked away. + +“Yes, I do. I don’t want to be worried about such things. Father says I +needn’t, it’s too soon and I’d rather not.” + +“Mayn’t I hope you’ll change your mind by-and-by? I’ll wait and say +nothing till you have had more time. Don’t play with me, Meg. I didn’t +think that of you.” + +“Don’t think of me at all. I’d rather you wouldn’t,” said Meg, taking a +naughty satisfaction in trying her lover’s patience and her own power. + +He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel +heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor +tramped about the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so +wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of +herself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had +not come hobbling in at this interesting minute. + +The old lady couldn’t resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had +met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March’s arrival, +drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back +part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to +surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as +if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study. + +“Bless me, what’s all this?” cried the old lady with a rap of her cane +as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady. + +“It’s Father’s friend. I’m so surprised to see you!” stammered Meg, +feeling that she was in for a lecture now. + +“That’s evident,” returned Aunt March, sitting down. “But what is +Father’s friend saying to make you look like a peony? There’s mischief +going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,” with another rap. + +“We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,” began Meg, +wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house. + +“Brooke? That boy’s tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. +Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father’s letters, and +I made her tell me. You haven’t gone and accepted him, child?” cried +Aunt March, looking scandalized. + +“Hush! He’ll hear. Shan’t I call Mother?” said Meg, much troubled. + +“Not yet. I’ve something to say to you, and I must free my mind at +once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny +of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl,” +said the old lady impressively. + +Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of +opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us +have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in +love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would +probably have declared she couldn’t think of it, but as she was +preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind +that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision +easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with +unusual spirit. + +“I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money +to anyone you like,” she said, nodding her head with a resolute air. + +“Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You’ll be +sorry for it by-and-by, when you’ve tried love in a cottage and found +it a failure.” + +“It can’t be a worse one than some people find in big houses,” retorted +Meg. + +Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did +not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so +brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to +love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and +after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she +could, “Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it +kindly, and don’t want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake +at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It’s +your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you.” + +“Father and Mother don’t think so. They like John though he is poor.” + +“Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of +babies.” + +“I’m glad of it,” cried Meg stoutly. + +Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. “This Rook is +poor and hasn’t got any rich relations, has he?” + +“No, but he has many warm friends.” + +“You can’t live on friends, try it and see how cool they’ll grow. He +hasn’t any business, has he?” + +“Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him.” + +“That won’t last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not +to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, +position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when +you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? +I thought you had more sense, Meg.” + +“I couldn’t do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise, +he’s got heaps of talent, he’s willing to work and sure to get on, he’s +so energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I’m proud +to think he cares for me, though I’m so poor and young and silly,” said +Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness. + +“He knows you have got rich relations, child. That’s the secret of his +liking, I suspect.” + +“Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such +meanness, and I won’t listen to you a minute if you talk so,” cried Meg +indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady’s +suspicions. “My John wouldn’t marry for money, any more than I would. +We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I’m not afraid of being +poor, for I’ve been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him +because he loves me, and I...” + +Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn’t made up +her mind, that she had told ‘her John’ to go away, and that he might be +overhearing her inconsistent remarks. + +Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her +pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl’s happy young +face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour. + +“Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child, +and you’ve lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won’t +stop. I’m disappointed in you, and haven’t spirits to see your father +now. Don’t expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr. +Brooke’s friends must take care of you. I’m done with you forever.” + +And slamming the door in Meg’s face, Aunt March drove off in high +dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl’s courage with her, for when +left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. +Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. +Brooke, who said all in one breath, “I couldn’t help hearing, Meg. +Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care +for me a little bit.” + +“I didn’t know how much till she abused you,” began Meg. + +“And I needn’t go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?” + +Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the +stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced +herself forever in Jo’s eyes by meekly whispering, “Yes, John,” and +hiding her face on Mr. Brooke’s waistcoat. + +Fifteen minutes after Aunt March’s departure, Jo came softly +downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound +within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to +herself, “She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is +settled. I’ll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it.” + +But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the +threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth +nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy +and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an +objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid +enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister +enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject +submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had +suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables +actually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and +saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but ‘that man’, as +Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the +astonished newcomer, “Sister Jo, congratulate us!” + +That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and +making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a +word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming +tragically as she burst into the room, “Oh, do somebody go down quick! +John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!” + +Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon +the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news +to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most +agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them, +so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles +to the rats. + +Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great +deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends +by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his +plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it. + +The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which +he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both +looking so happy that Jo hadn’t the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy +was very much impressed by John’s devotion and Meg’s dignity, Beth +beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the +young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly +evident Aunt March was right in calling them as ‘unworldly as a pair of +babies’. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old +room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the +family began there. + +“You can’t say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?” said +Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she +was planning to make. + +“No, I’m sure I can’t. How much has happened since I said that! It +seems a year ago,” answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far +above such common things as bread and butter. + +“The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the +changes have begun,” said Mrs. March. “In most families there comes, +now and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it +ends well, after all.” + +“Hope the next will end better,” muttered Jo, who found it very hard to +see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few +persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or +lessened in any way. + +“I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I +live to work out my plans,” said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if +everything had become possible to him now. + +“Doesn’t it seem very long to wait?” asked Amy, who was in a hurry for +the wedding. + +“I’ve got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short +time to me,” answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen +there before. + +“You have only to wait, I am to do the work,” said John beginning his +labors by picking up Meg’s napkin, with an expression which caused Jo +to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the +front door banged, “Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible +conversation.” + +But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good +spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for ‘Mrs. John Brooke’, +and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had +been brought about by his excellent management. + +“I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when +he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it’s done though the sky +falls,” said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his +congratulations. + +“Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the +future and invite you to my wedding on the spot,” answered Mr. Brooke, +who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil. + +“I’ll come if I’m at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo’s face +alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don’t look +festive, ma’am, what’s the matter?” asked Laurie, following her into a +corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence. + +“I don’t approve of the match, but I’ve made up my mind to bear it, and +shall not say a word against it,” said Jo solemnly. “You can’t know how +hard it is for me to give up Meg,” she continued with a little quiver +in her voice. + +“You don’t give her up. You only go halves,” said Laurie consolingly. + +“It can never be the same again. I’ve lost my dearest friend,” sighed +Jo. + +“You’ve got me, anyhow. I’m not good for much, I know, but I’ll stand +by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!” and Laurie +meant what he said. + +“I know you will, and I’m ever so much obliged. You are always a great +comfort to me, Teddy,” returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands. + +“Well, now, don’t be dismal, there’s a good fellow. It’s all right you +see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately, +Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her +own little house. We’ll have capital times after she is gone, for I +shall be through college before long, and then we’ll go abroad on some +nice trip or other. Wouldn’t that console you?” + +“I rather think it would, but there’s no knowing what may happen in +three years,” said Jo thoughtfully. + +“That’s true. Don’t you wish you could take a look forward and see +where we shall all be then? I do,” returned Laurie. + +“I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so +happy now, I don’t believe they could be much improved.” And Jo’s eyes +went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the +prospect was a pleasant one. + +Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of +the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing +the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light +of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not +copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who +held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead +him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low +seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie, +leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly +head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long +glass which reflected them both. + +So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises +again, depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic +drama called _Little Women_. + + + + +PART 2 + + +In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg’s wedding... + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR +GOSSIP + + +In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg’s wedding with free +minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. +And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too +much ‘lovering’ in the story, as I fear they may (I’m not afraid the +young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, +“What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a +dashing young neighbor over the way?” + +The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the +quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with +his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature +as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better +than learning, the charity which calls all mankind ‘brother’, the piety +that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely. + +These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which +shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many +admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as +naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard +experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the +gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled +women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the +gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the +pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found +a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions +than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were +beautiful and true, although ‘they wouldn’t pay’. + +To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so +they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his +books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, +anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned +in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred +words, husband and father. + +The girls gave their hearts into their mother’s keeping, their souls +into their father’s, and to both parents, who lived and labored so +faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and +bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and +outlives death. + +Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we +saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg’s affairs that the +hospitals and homes still full of wounded ‘boys’ and soldiers’ widows, +decidedly miss the motherly missionary’s visits. + +John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent +home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he +deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love +are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to +his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for +business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy +independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence’s more +generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better +satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any +risks with borrowed money. + +Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly +in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for +love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, +and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life +must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg +couldn’t help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, +and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have +the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she +thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little +home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking +over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright +that she forgot Sallie’s splendor and felt herself the richest, +happiest girl in Christendom. + +Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to +Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of +the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would +have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, +her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted +herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the +fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again +the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and +serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone’s friend, +and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had +learned to know it. + +As long as _The Spread Eagle_ paid her a dollar a column for her +‘rubbish’, as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun +her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy +brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a +slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to +place the name of March upon the roll of fame. + +Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was +now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please +himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, +and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to +get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being +spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, +if he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the +kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who +watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any +means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and +believed in him with all their hearts. + +Being only ‘a glorious human boy’, of course he frolicked and flirted, +grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions +ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came +perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the +love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save +himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible +power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he +rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the +girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, +dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The ‘men of my class’, +were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits +of ‘our fellows’, and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of +these great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him. + +Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among +them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of +fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in +her private and particular John to care for any other lords of +creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how +Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element, +and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly +attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than +the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, +but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying +the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy’s shrine. And speaking +of sentiment brings us very naturally to the ‘Dovecote’. + +That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for +Meg’s first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly +appropriate to the gentle lovers who ‘went on together like a pair of +turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo’. It was a tiny house, +with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket +handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, +shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present +the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a +dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches, +undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was +merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted. +But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no +fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it was +fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in +whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit, +and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of +precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coalbin. But +once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more +complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the +furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no +marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little +parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a +stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the +pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the +loving messages they brought. + +I don’t think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty +because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer +could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy’s +artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with +good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her +mother put away Meg’s few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally +certain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and +neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, +and laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute ‘Mis. Brooke came +home’. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a +supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to +last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different +kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china. + +People who hire all these things done for them never know what they +lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, +and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, +from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was +eloquent of home love and tender forethought. + +What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping +excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter +arose over Laurie’s ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this +young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as +ever. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits +some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now +a bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which +fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the +knives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left +the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one’s hands, +infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the +deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for +odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own +steam with every prospect of exploding in the process. + +In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him +‘Mr. Toodles’. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee +ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week +beheld some fresh absurdity. + +Everything was done at last, even to Amy’s arranging different colored +soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth’s setting the +table for the first meal. + +“Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you +should be happy here?” asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went +through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling +together more tenderly than ever. + +“Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that +I can’t talk about it,” with a look that was far better than words. + +“If she only had a servant or two it would be all right,” said Amy, +coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether +the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece. + +“Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try +her way first. There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my +errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to +keep me from getting lazy or homesick,” answered Meg tranquilly. + +“Sallie Moffat has four,” began Amy. + +“If Meg had four, the house wouldn’t hold them, and master and missis +would have to camp in the garden,” broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big +blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles. + +“Sallie isn’t a poor man’s wife, and many maids are in keeping with her +fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling +that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in +the big one. It’s a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave +themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was +first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get +torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got +heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief.” + +“Why didn’t you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she +does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants +laugh at her,” said Meg. + +“I did after a while, not to ‘mess’ but to learn of Hannah how things +should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play +then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only +possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little +girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You +begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will +be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer man, for the mistress +of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if +she wishes to be well and honestly served.” + +“Yes, Mother, I’m sure of that,” said Meg, listening respectfully to +the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all +absorbing subject of house keeping. “Do you know I like this room most +of all in my baby house,” added Meg, a minute after, as they went +upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet. + +Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and +exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke, for +that linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married +‘that Brooke’ she shouldn’t have a cent of her money, Aunt March was +rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her +repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her +mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could +satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence’s mamma, was ordered to buy, +have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen, and +send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the +secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt +March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could +give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first +bride. + +“That’s a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young +friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger +bowls for company and that satisfied her,” said Mrs. March, patting the +damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their +fineness. + +“I haven’t a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me +all my days, Hannah says.” And Meg looked quite contented, as well she +might. + +A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt +basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a +great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the +gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and a hearty... + +“Here I am, Mother! Yes, it’s all right.” + +The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a +kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the +little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss. + +“For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker’s congratulations and +compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. +Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady.” + +As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled +Beth’s hair ribbon, stared at Jo’s big pinafore, and fell into an +attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and +everyone began to talk. + +“Where is John?” asked Meg anxiously. + +“Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma’am.” + +“Which side won the last match, Teddy?” inquired Jo, who persisted in +feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years. + +“Ours, of course. Wish you’d been there to see.” + +“How is the lovely Miss Randal?” asked Amy with a significant smile. + +“More cruel than ever. Don’t you see how I’m pining away?” and Laurie +gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh. + +“What’s the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg,” said Beth, eying +the knobby parcel with curiosity. + +“It’s a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,” +observed Laurie, as a watchman’s rattle appeared, amid the laughter of +the girls. + +“Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just +swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood +in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn’t it?” and Laurie gave them a sample of its +powers that made them cover up their ears. + +“There’s gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to +mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from +destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she +hadn’t defended it manfully I’d have had a pick at it, for it looked +like a remarkably plummy one.” + +“I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie,” said Meg in a matronly +tone. + +“I’m doing my best, ma’am, but can’t get much higher, I’m afraid, as +six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,” responded +the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little +chandelier. + +“I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this +spick-and-span bower, so as I’m tremendously hungry, I propose an +adjournment,” he added presently. + +“Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to +settle,” said Meg, bustling away. + +“Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant’s to get more flowers for +tomorrow,” added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque +curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody. + +“Come, Jo, don’t desert a fellow. I’m in such a state of exhaustion I +can’t get home without help. Don’t take off your apron, whatever you +do, it’s peculiarly becoming,” said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial +aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his +feeble steps. + +“Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow,” began Jo, +as they strolled away together. “You must promise to behave well, and +not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans.” + +“Not a prank.” + +“And don’t say funny things when we ought to be sober.” + +“I never do. You are the one for that.” + +“And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall +certainly laugh if you do.” + +“You won’t see me, you’ll be crying so hard that the thick fog round +you will obscure the prospect.” + +“I never cry unless for some great affliction.” + +“Such as fellows going to college, hey?” cut in Laurie, with suggestive +laugh. + +“Don’t be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company.” + +“Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?” + +“Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he’ll take +it?” asked Jo rather sharply. + +“Now, Jo, do you think I’d look your mother in the face and say ‘All +right’, if it wasn’t?” and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air. + +“No, I don’t.” + +“Then don’t go and be suspicious. I only want some money,” said Laurie, +walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone. + +“You spend a great deal, Teddy.” + +“Bless you, I don’t spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone +before I know it.” + +“You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and +can’t say ‘No’ to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for +him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,” +said Jo warmly. + +“Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn’t have me let +that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, +when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?” + +“Of course not, but I don’t see the use of your having seventeen +waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I +thought you’d got over the dandy period, but every now and then it +breaks out in a new spot. Just now it’s the fashion to be hideous, to +make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, +orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap +ugliness, I’d say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I +don’t get any satisfaction out of it.” + +Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, +that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only +afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a +rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and +stuffed it into his pocket. + +“Don’t lecture any more, there’s a good soul! I have enough all through +the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I’ll get myself up +regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends.” + +“I’ll leave you in peace if you’ll only let your hair grow. I’m not +aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks +like a young prize fighter,” observed Jo severely. + +“This unassuming style promotes study, that’s why we adopt it,” +returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having +voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for +quarter-inch-long stubble. + +“By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate +about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about +in a most suspicious manner. He’d better nip his little passion in the +bud, hadn’t he?” added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone, +after a minute’s silence. + +“Of course he had. We don’t want any more marrying in this family for +years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?” and Jo +looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in +their teens. + +“It’s a fast age, and I don’t know what we are coming to, ma’am. You +are a mere infant, but you’ll go next, Jo, and we’ll be left +lamenting,” said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the +times. + +“Don’t be alarmed. I’m not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want +me, and it’s a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a +family.” + +“You won’t give anyone a chance,” said Laurie, with a sidelong glance +and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. “You won’t +show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it +by accident and can’t help showing that he likes it, you treat him as +Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so +thorny no one dares touch or look at you.” + +“I don’t like that sort of thing. I’m too busy to be worried with +nonsense, and I think it’s dreadful to break up families so. Now don’t +say any more about it. Meg’s wedding has turned all our heads, and we +talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don’t wish to get +cross, so let’s change the subject;” and Jo looked quite ready to fling +cold water on the slightest provocation. + +Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in +a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the +gate, “Mark my words, Jo, you’ll go next.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE +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 have. “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 ran 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 softened, 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 were, 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 like 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 +momentary 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 forehead 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, and +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 experience, 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 so 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, through 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 that 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, while 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, and 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 married 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 views 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 lurid 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 better, 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 abrupt 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 excavated 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 featherbeds 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 art’. + +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 +instinctive 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 +refinement 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, sketch 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 coffee 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 +better 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 cultivate 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 worsted 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 expected, 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 scenes, 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, while 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 secret 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 masculine 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 +away 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 more 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, suiting 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 the 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 delicious 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 what-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. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN +LITERARY LESSONS + + +Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her +path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would +have given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her +in this wise. + +Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her +scribbling suit, and ‘fall into a vortex’, as she expressed it, writing +away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was +finished she could find no peace. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a +black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a +cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which +she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap +was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these +periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads +semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn, Jo?” They +did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an +observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive +article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that +hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly +askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, +and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew, +and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, +did anyone dare address Jo. + +She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing +fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a +blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat +safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real +and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals +stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness +which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth +living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually +lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, +sleepy, cross, or despondent. + +She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was +prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for +her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People’s Course, the +lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a +subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great +social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding +the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy +with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying +to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx. + +They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, +Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the +seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads +and bonnets to match, discussing Women’s Rights and making tatting. +Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the +hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an +old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On +her right, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a +newspaper. + +It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her, +idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed +the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, +tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two +infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, +were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying +away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a +page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half +his paper, saying bluntly, “want to read it? That’s a first-rate +story.” + +Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for +lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, +mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light +literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author’s +invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the +dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall. + +“Prime, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last +paragraph of her portion. + +“I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,” returned Jo, +amused at his admiration of the trash. + +“I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good +living out of such stories, they say.” and he pointed to the name of +Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale. + +“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest. + +“No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the +office where this paper is printed.” + +“Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?” and Jo +looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled +exclamation points that adorned the page. + +“Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for +writing it.” + +Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while +Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and +hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, +and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its +columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the +audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not +the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the concoction of +her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before +the elopement or after the murder. + +She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much +to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when +‘genius took to burning’. Jo had never tried this style before, +contenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_. Her +experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave +her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and +costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her +limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to +make it, and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an +earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript +was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that +if the tale didn’t get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, +she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth. + +Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to +keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all +hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which +almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred +dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had +been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable +gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense +happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he would devote his +leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the +letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years +of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do +something, though it was only to write a sensation story. + +A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed +herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the +letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won +the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came +everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that +the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy +quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way... + +“You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind +the money.” + +“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a +fortune?” asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a +reverential eye. + +“Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo +promptly. + +To the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though Beth didn’t +come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, +while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was +satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with +a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She +did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the +house, for by the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts +for them all. The Duke’s Daughter paid the butcher’s bill, A Phantom +Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the +blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns. + +Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny +side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine +satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the +inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful +blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and +ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that +she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny. + +Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and +encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame +and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to +all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling +to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she +would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she +particularly admired. + +“Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for +printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can +for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is +more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this +important subject,” said Jo, calling a family council. + +“Don’t spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, +and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,” was her +father’s advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited +patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no +haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow. + +“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by +waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such work, +for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her +to do better next time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame of +outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money.” + +“Yes,” said Jo, knitting her brows, “that’s just it. I’ve been fussing +over the thing so long, I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or +indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons +take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it.” + +“I wouldn’t leave a word out of it. You’ll spoil it if you do, for the +interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the +people, and it will be all a muddle if you don’t explain as you go on,” +said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable +novel ever written. + +“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Leave out the explanations, make it brief and +dramatic, and let the characters tell the story’,” interrupted Jo, +turning to the publisher’s note. + +“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a +good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when +you’ve got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical +and metaphysical people in your novels,” said Amy, who took a strictly +practical view of the subject. + +“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “if my people are ‘philosophical and +metaphysical’, it isn’t my fault, for I know nothing about such things, +except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I’ve got some of his wise +ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, +what do you say?” + +“I should so like to see it printed soon,” was all Beth said, and +smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last +word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike +candor, which chilled Jo’s heart for a minute with a forboding fear, +and decided her to make her little venture ‘soon’. + +So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on +her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of +pleasing everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and like the old man and +his donkey in the fable suited nobody. + +Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got +into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about +it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description. +Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story. +Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while +Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, Jo +quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the +story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and +confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into +the big, busy world to try its fate. + +Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, +likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she +expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it +took her some time to recover. + +“You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it, when +it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a +promising book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo, +turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with +pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. “This man says, +‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is +sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The +next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, +spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ Now, as I had no +theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my +characters from life, I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another +says, ‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for +years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts that ‘Though it +is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a +dangerous book.’ ’Tisn’t! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and +nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only +wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I’d printed the whole +or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.” + +Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally. +Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so +well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those +whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an +author’s best education, and when the first soreness was over, she +could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel +herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received. + +“Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly, +“and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were +taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, +and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced +‘charmingly natural, tender, and true’. So I’ll comfort myself with +that, and when I’m ready, I’ll up again and take another.” + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT +DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES + + +Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the +determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a +paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously +every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much +love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but +succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil +one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and +bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too +tired, sometimes, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of +dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she +soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the +carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, +and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better +than hers. + +They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t +live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though +she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss +any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up +his kiss with the tender inquiry, “Shall I send some veal or mutton for +dinner, darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but +it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change +for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it +like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares +of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric +wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with +more energy than discretion. + +While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius’s +Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the +problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in +to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be +privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be +concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little +Hummels. An evening with John over the account books usually produced a +temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would +ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread +pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although +he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was +found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young +couples seldom get on long without, a family jar. + +Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with +homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John +was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra +quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be +attended to at once. As John firmly believed that ‘my wife’ was equal +to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that +she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most +pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little +pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for +her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the +elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the +bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her +success, for hadn’t she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array +of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and +the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg +resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling, +straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked +advice of Mrs. Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah +did that she left undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but +that dreadful stuff wouldn’t ‘jell’. + +She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand, +but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with +their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over +that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, +but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on +without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had +advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats +all that hot summer day, and at five o’clock sat down in her +topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and +wept. + +Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, “My +husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he +likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no +scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good +dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, +and be sure of a welcome from me.” + +How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear +her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior +wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never +happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to +distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of +tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only +wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can. + +If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have +been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the +year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating +himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling +sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant +anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty +wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his +mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and +husband. + +It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached +the Dovecote. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was +not only shut, but locked, and yesterday’s mud still adorned the steps. +The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty +wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in +her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she +greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a +sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes. + +“I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while +I look up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. + +Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and +Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused +discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see +and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily. + +In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was +trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was +burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly +eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly +liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat +sobbing dismally. + +“My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with +awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret +consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden. + +“Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I’ve been at it +till I’m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!” and the +exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet +welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized +at the same time as the floor. + +“What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the +anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was +all askew. + +“Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly. + +“Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than that. +Out with it, love.” + +“The... The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know what to do!” + +John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the +derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which +put the finishing stroke to poor Meg’s woe. + +“Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother any more +about it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven’s sake +don’t have hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner, +and...” + +John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a +tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of +mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay... + +“A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you +do such a thing?” + +“Hush, he’s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can’t +be helped now,” said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. + +“You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to +have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly, for even +turtledoves will peck when ruffled. + +“I didn’t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for +I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you +have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang +me if I ever do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air. + +“I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and there +isn’t any dinner.” + +“Well, I like that! Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home, and +the pudding you promised?” cried John, rushing to the larder. + +“I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s. I’m +sorry, but I was so busy,” and Meg’s tears began again. + +John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day’s work to +come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty +table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or +manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have +blown over, but for one unlucky word. + +“It’s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we’ll pull +through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but just exert +yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as hungry as +hunters, so we shan’t mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread +and cheese. We won’t ask for jelly.” + +He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his +fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and +the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke. + +“You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I’m too used up to +‘exert’ myself for anyone. It’s like a man to propose a bone and vulgar +bread and cheese for company. I won’t have anything of the sort in my +house. Take that Scott up to Mother’s, and tell him I’m away, sick, +dead, anything. I won’t see him, and you two can laugh at me and my +jelly as much as you like. You won’t have anything else here.” and +having delivered her defiance all on one breath, Meg cast away her +pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own +room. + +What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr. +Scott was not taken ‘up to Mother’s’, and when Meg descended, after +they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous +lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten +“a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the +sweet stuff, and hide the pots.” + +Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own +short-comings, of loyalty to John, “who might be cruel, but nobody +should know it,” restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she +dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be +forgiven. + +Unfortunately, John didn’t come, not seeing the matter in that light. +He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little +wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his +friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but +John was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that Meg had +deserted him in his hour of need. “It wasn’t fair to tell a man to +bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you +at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to +be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn’t! And Meg must know +it.” + +He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over +and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over +him. “Poor little thing! It was hard upon her when she tried so +heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was +young. I must be patient and teach her.” He hoped she had not gone +home—he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled +again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry +herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, +resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where +she had failed in her duty to her spouse. + +Meg likewise resolved to be ‘calm and kind, but firm’, and show him his +duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and +comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of +the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, +as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor. + +John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe, but feeling +that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came +leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly +relevant remark, “We are going to have a new moon, my dear.” + +“I’ve no objection,” was Meg’s equally soothing remark. A few other +topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and +wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to +one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively +speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes +for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke. Both +looked quite ‘calm and firm’, and both felt desperately uncomfortable. + +“Oh, dear,” thought Meg, “married life is very trying, and does need +infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.” The word ‘Mother’ +suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with +unbelieving protests. + +“John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see +and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never +will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is +very accurate, and particular about the truth—a good trait, though you +call him ‘fussy’. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will +give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a +temper, not like ours—one flash and then all over—but the white, still +anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be +careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for +peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be +the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little +piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for +bitter sorrow and regret.” + +These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, +especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own +hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her +own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to +such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in +her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, +thinking, “I will be the first to say, ‘Forgive me’”, but he did not +seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was +hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a +minute she felt as if she really couldn’t do it, then came the thought, +“This is the beginning. I’ll do my part, and have nothing to reproach +myself with,” and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the +forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than +a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying +tenderly... + +“It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, +dear. I never will again!” + +But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both +declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family +peace was preserved in that little family jar. + +After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and +served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first +course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made +everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a +lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all +the way home. + +In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat +renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at +the little house, or inviting ‘that poor dear’ to come in and spend the +day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often +felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night, and nothing +to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that +Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing +Sallie’s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because +she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the +coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn’t like +it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked +even worse. + +She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted +her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value +more—his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, +and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay +bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till +now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account +books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that +autumn the serpent got into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a +modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn’t like to be +pitied and made to feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to +confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying +something pretty, so that Sallie needn’t think she had to economize. +She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom +necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn’t worth worrying +about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping +excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on. + +But the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up +her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. +John was busy that month and left the bills to her, the next month he +was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and Meg +never forgot it. A few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and +it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg +longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black +silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper +for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five +dollars apiece at New Year’s. That was only a month to wait, and here +was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if +she only dared to take it. John always said what was his was hers, but +would he think it right to spend not only the prospective +five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? +That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to +lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg +beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, +shimmering folds, and said, “A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.” She +answered, “I’ll take it,” and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie +had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no +consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, +and the police were after her. + +When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by +spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn’t +become her, after all, and the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped +like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, +not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost +of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that +night, Meg’s heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, +she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they +could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had +found her out, but didn’t mean to let her know it. The house bills were +all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing +the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when Meg, knowing that +it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously... + +“You haven’t seen my private expense book yet.” + +John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, +and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women +wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning +of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three +rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a +bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like +the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her +extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent +wife. + +The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg +got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of +his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic +increasing with every word... + +“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really been +dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things, +you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year’s +money will partly pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for +I knew you’d think it wrong in me.” + +John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly, +“Don’t go and hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of killing +boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she does +pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.” + +That had been one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye had fallen on +it as he spoke. “Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty +dollars!” thought Meg, with a shiver. + +“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said, with the calmness +of desperation, for she wanted the worst over. + +“Well, dear, what is the ‘dem’d total’, as Mr. Mantalini says?” + +That didn’t sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her with +the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and +answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at +the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough +without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added. For +a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly—but she could +feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure—. . . + +“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the +furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.” + +“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly, for a sudden +recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her. + +“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, +but I’ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat’s when she +gets it on,” said John dryly. + +“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t help it. I don’t mean to waste +your money, and I didn’t think those little things would count up so. I +can’t resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and pitying +me because I don’t. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m +tired of being poor.” + +The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but +he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many +pleasures for Meg’s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the +minute she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, +saying with a little quiver in his voice, “I was afraid of this. I do +my best, Meg.” If he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not +have broken her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him +close, crying, with repentant tears, “Oh, John, my dear, kind, +hard-working boy. I didn’t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and +ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!” + +He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, +but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be +forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had +promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had +reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings +recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John went on so +quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he +stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry +herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and the +discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat +reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had +simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, “I +can’t afford it, my dear.” + +Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with +her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would +break. + +They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband +better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, +given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him +a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings +and failures of those he loved. + +Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the +truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. +Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present +of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and +when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new +silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his +present, and what a blissful state of things ensued. John came home +early, Meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning +by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted +little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to +Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman’s life. + +Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, +with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for +Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the +other. + +“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me +before I came home?” began Laurie in a loud whisper. + +“Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of ’em is upstairs a +worshipin’. We didn’t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the +parlor, and I’ll send ’em down to you,” with which somewhat involved +reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically. + +Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon +a large pillow. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and +there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort. + +“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly. + +Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him +with an imploring gesture. “No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop +it or smash it, as sure as fate.” + +“Then you shan’t see your nevvy,” said Jo decidedly, turning as if to +go. + +“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.” and obeying +orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into +his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John +caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with +two babies instead of one. + +No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough +to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the +unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that +Jo sat down on the floor and screamed. + +“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said for a minute, then turning to the +women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, +“Take ’em quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop ’em.” + +Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm, +as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while Laurie +laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. + +“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have told you, +for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I’ve done +it,” said Jo, when she got her breath. + +“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys? +What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look. Hold me up, +Jo, for upon my life it’s one too many for me,” returned Laurie, +regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland +looking at a pair of infantile kittens. + +“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa, beaming upon +the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels. + +“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?” and Laurie bent +like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies. + +“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French +fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one +brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy,” said wicked Jo. + +“I’m afraid they mightn’t like it,” began Laurie, with unusual timidity +in such matters. + +“Of course they will, they are used to it now. Do it this minute, sir!” +commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy. + +Laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each +little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal. + +“There, I knew they didn’t like it! That’s the boy, see him kick, he +hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch +into a man of your own size, will you?” cried Laurie, delighted with a +poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about. + +“He’s to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother +and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs, +and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,” +said Amy, with aunt-like interest. + +“Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie. + +“Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,” cried Jo +clapping her hands. + +Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were ‘Daisy’ and +‘Demi’ to the end of the chapter. + + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE +CALLS + + +“Come, Jo, it’s time.” + +“For what?” + +“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make +half a dozen calls with me today?” + +“I’ve done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don’t +think I ever was mad enough to say I’d make six calls in one day, when +a single one upsets me for a week.” + +“Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon +of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our +neighbors’ visits.” + +“If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my +bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it’s not fair, +and I don’t go.” + +“Now, that’s shirking. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you +pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your +duty, and then be at peace for another six months.” + +At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was +mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself +because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking +to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make +calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the +formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, +bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and +having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she +smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat +and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. + +“Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don’t intend +to make calls in that state, I hope,” cried Amy, surveying her with +amazement. + +“Why not? I’m neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty +walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for +me, I don’t wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant +as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn’t for me, and +furbelows only worry me.” + +“Oh, dear!” sighed Amy, “now she’s in a contrary fit, and will drive me +distracted before I can get her properly ready. I’m sure it’s no +pleasure to me to go today, but it’s a debt we owe society, and there’s +no one to pay it but you and me. I’ll do anything for you, Jo, if +you’ll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. +You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and +behave so beautifully, if you try, that I’m proud of you. I’m afraid to +go alone, do come and take care of me.” + +“You’re an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old +sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, +and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don’t know which is the +most absurd. Well, I’ll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be +commander of the expedition, and I’ll obey blindly, will that satisfy +you?” said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike +submission. + +“You’re a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I’ll +tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good +impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you’d only try +to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the +pink rose in your bonnet. It’s becoming, and you look too sober in your +plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. +We’ll stop at Meg’s, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can +have my dove-colored one.” + +While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not +without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled +into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet +strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she +put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out +the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the +present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her +hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last +touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of +countenance, saying meekly... + +“I’m perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die +happy.” + +“You’re highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a +careful view.” Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then +fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, “Yes, +you’ll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the +rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands +easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There’s one thing you can do +well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can’t, but it’s very nice to see +you, and I’m so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It’s simple, +but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the +point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I +like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn’t.” + +“You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever,” said Jo, looking through +her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the +golden hair. “Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it +up, please, ma’am?” + +“Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style +suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You +haven’t half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You’ll never look +finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make +up the pleasing whole.” + +Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing +up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as +‘pretty as picters’, Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window +to watch them. + +“Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so +I want you to put on your best deportment. Don’t make any of your +abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and +quiet, that’s safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen +minutes,” said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed +the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm. + +“Let me see. ‘Calm, cool, and quiet’, yes, I think I can promise that. +I’ve played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I’ll try it +off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my +child.” + +Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during +the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold +correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as +silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her ‘charming +novel’, and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, +and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a +demure “Yes” or “No” with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the +word ‘talk’, tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with +her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment +like Maud’s face, ‘icily regular, splendidly null’. + +“What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!” was +the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door +closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, +but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very +naturally laid the blame upon Jo. + +“How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly +dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and +stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs’. Gossip as other girls do, and +be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. +They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and +I wouldn’t fail to make a good impression there for anything.” + +“I’ll be agreeable. I’ll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and +raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I’ll +imitate what is called ‘a charming girl’. I can do it, for I have May +Chester as a model, and I’ll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don’t +say, ‘What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!” + +Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there +was no knowing where she would stop. Amy’s face was a study when she +saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young +ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and +join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken +possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to +hear a long account of Lucretia’s last attack, while three delightful +young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush +in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who +seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as +the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears +to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with +curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the +fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this +sort of conversation. + +“She rides splendidly. Who taught her?” + +“No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting +straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she +doesn’t know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap +because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion +for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a +horsebreaker, and get her living so.” + +At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the +impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which +was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was +in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off +again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful +blunders. + +“Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, +and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that +you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for +a pleasure party, wasn’t it?” + +“Which did she choose?” asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who +enjoyed the subject. + +“None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the +river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, +because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really +pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she +took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it +over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the +utter amazement of the old man!” + +“Did she ride the horse?” + +“Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her +brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the +life of the party.” + +“Well, I call that plucky!” and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving +glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the +girl look so red and uncomfortable. + +She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a +sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of +the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to +the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was +bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, +“Oh, Amy painted it. You can’t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours +any color we like. It’s a great comfort to have an artistic sister.” + +“Isn’t that an original idea?” cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. + +“That’s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There’s +nothing the child can’t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for +Sallie’s party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest +shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,” +added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister’s accomplishments that +exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her +cardcase at her. + +“We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,” +observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, +who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. + +Any mention of her ‘works’ always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either +grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque +remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write +that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you +going to New York this winter?” + +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 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 failure 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,” +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 ferment at the coming of a +royal yellow-haired laddie, 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 Jo, “I neither like, respect, nor admire +Tudor, though his grandfather’s uncle’s nephew’s niece was a 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 March 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 Teddie 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 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 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 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 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 dove-like 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 a 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. + +Crosspatch, draw the latch, +Sit by the fire and spin, + + +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 a lump of 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.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY +CONSEQUENCES + + +Mrs. Chester’s fair was so very elegant and select that it was +considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be +invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the +matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all +parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her +life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on +easily. The ‘haughty, uninteresting creature’ was let severely alone, +but Amy’s talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the +art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate +and valuable contributions to it. + +Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then +there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost +impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young, +with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together. + +May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater +favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling +circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy’s dainty +pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May’s painted vases—that was one +thorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy at +a late party and only once with May—that was thorn number two. But the +chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her +unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had +whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the +Lambs’. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her +naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the +frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had +reached the culprits, however, and Amy’s dismay can be imagined, when, +the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches +to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the +supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a +cold look... + +“I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about +my giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most +prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are +the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take +this place. I’m sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in +the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have +another table if you like.” + +Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this +little speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to +utter it naturally, with Amy’s unsuspicious eyes looking straight at +her full of surprise and trouble. + +Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess +what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did, +“Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?” + +“Now, my dear, don’t have any ill feeling, I beg. It’s merely a matter +of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this +table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to +you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but +we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you +have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn’t you like the flower table? The +little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a +charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you +know.” + +“Especially to gentlemen,” added May, with a look which enlightened Amy +as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but +took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with +unexpected amiability... + +“It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I’ll give up my place here at +once, and attend to the flowers, if you like.” + +“You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,” began +May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty +racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so +carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy +mistook her meaning, and said quickly... + +“Oh, certainly, if they are in your way,” and sweeping her +contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that +herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness. + +“Now she’s mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t asked you to speak, Mama,” +said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table. + +“Girls’ quarrels are soon over,” returned her mother, feeling a trifle +ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might. + +The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which +cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell +to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. +But everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. +Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the +little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered +like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless +efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn’t +stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble +down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile +got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid’s cheek. +She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, +which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any +girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor +Amy and wish her well through her task. + +There was great indignation at home when she told her story that +evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done +right. Beth declared she wouldn’t go to the fair at all, and Jo +demanded why she didn’t take all her pretty things and leave those mean +people to get on without her. + +“Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such +things, and though I think I’ve a right to be hurt, I don’t intend to +show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, +won’t they, Marmee?” + +“That’s the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, +though it’s not very easy to give it sometimes,” said her mother, with +the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and +practicing. + +In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, +Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her +enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that +came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her +table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling +the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique +cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which +on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As +she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable pride, +her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a +brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of +good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, +were the words, “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” + +“I ought, but I don’t,” thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright +page to May’s discontented face behind the big vases, that could not +hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute, +turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for +all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true +sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, +school, office, or home. Even a fair table may become a pulpit, if it +can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season. +Amy’s conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and +there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to +heart, and straightway put it in practice. + +A group of girls were standing about May’s table, admiring the pretty +things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their +voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the +story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit +had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She +heard May say sorrowfully... + +“It’s too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don’t +want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then. +Now it’s spoiled.” + +“I dare say she’d put them back if you asked her,” suggested someone. + +“How could I after all the fuss?” began May, but she did not finish, +for Amy’s voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly... + +“You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I +was just thinking I’d offer to put them back, for they belong to your +table rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me +if I was hasty in carrying them away last night.” + +As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, +and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly +thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it. + +“Now, I call that lovely of her, don’t you?” cried one girl. + +May’s answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was +evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a +disagreeable laugh, “Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn’t sell them +at her own table.” + +Now, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them +appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, +feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as she +presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to +blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that +one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly. + +It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her +table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few +cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long +before night. + +The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd +about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and +fro with important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked +wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and +happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no +hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not +only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his +friends made it a real martyrdom. + +She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet +that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no +complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her +an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a charming +little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting +herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were +about to be turned. + +“Don’t do anything rude, pray Jo; I won’t have any fuss made, so let it +all pass and behave yourself,” begged Amy, as she departed early, +hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little +table. + +“I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I +know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and +his boys will lend a hand, and we’ll have a good time yet.” returned +Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar +tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him. + +“Is that my boy?” + +“As sure as this is my girl!” and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm +with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified. + +“Oh, Teddy, such doings!” and Jo told Amy’s wrongs with sisterly zeal. + +“A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and I’ll be +hanged if I don’t make them buy every flower she’s got, and camp down +before her table afterward,” said Laurie, espousing her cause with +warmth. + +“The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not +arrive in time. I don’t wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I +shouldn’t wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean +thing they are very likely to do another,” observed Jo in a disgusted +tone. + +“Didn’t Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to.” + +“I didn’t know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was +poorly, I didn’t like to worry him by asking, though I did want some.” + +“Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are +just as much yours as mine. Don’t we always go halves in everything?” +began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny. + +“Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn’t suit me at +all. But we mustn’t stand philandering here. I’ve got to help Amy, so +you go and make yourself splendid, and if you’ll be so very kind as to +let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I’ll bless you +forever.” + +“Couldn’t you do it now?” asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut +the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the +bars, “Go away, Teddy, I’m busy.” + +Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for +Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket arranged in +his best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en +masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only +came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy’s taste, and +apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends +gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, +encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in +the room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing +more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the +conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all. + +Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily +surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking +up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of +the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the +ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also +discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and +considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she +glanced over it for her sister’s things, but saw no sign of them. +“Tucked away out of sight, I dare say,” thought Jo, who could forgive +her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family. + +“Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?” asked May with a +conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be +generous. + +“She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is +enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know, +‘especially to gentlemen’.” Jo couldn’t resist giving that little slap, +but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to +praising the great vases, which still remained unsold. + +“Is Amy’s illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for +Father,” said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister’s work. + +“Everything of Amy’s sold long ago. I took care that the right people +saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,” returned +May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had, +that day. + +Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked +both touched and surprised by the report of May’s word and manner. + +“Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables +as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table,” she said, +ordering out ‘Teddy’s own’, as the girls called the college friends. + +“‘Charge, Chester, charge!’ is the motto for that table, but do your +duty like men, and you’ll get your money’s worth of art in every sense +of the word,” said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx +prepared to take the field. + +“To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May,” said little +Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and +getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said... + +“Very well, my son, for a small boy!” and walked him off, with a +paternal pat on the head. + +“Buy the vases,” whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals +of fire on her enemy’s head. + +To May’s great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but +pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen +speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and +wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted +fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases. + +Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said +something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam +with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and +anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till +several days later. + +The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she +did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look +which said ‘forgive and forget’. That satisfied Amy, and when she got +home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a +great bouquet in each. “The reward of merit for a magnanimous March,” +as Laurie announced with a flourish. + +“You’ve a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character +than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You’ve behaved sweetly, and I +respect you with all my heart,” said Jo warmly, as they brushed their +hair together late that night. + +“Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must +have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart +on selling your own pretty things. I don’t believe I could have done it +as kindly as you did,” added Beth from her pillow. + +“Why, girls, you needn’t praise me so. I only did as I’d be done by. +You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true +gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know +how. I can’t explain exactly, but I want to be above the little +meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I’m far +from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is.” + +Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, “I understand now +what you mean, and I’ll never laugh at you again. You are getting on +faster than you think, and I’ll take lessons of you in true politeness, +for you’ve learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you’ll get +your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall.” + +A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be +delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March’s face was +illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who +were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were. + +“Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants...” + +“Me to go with her!” burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an +uncontrollable rapture. + +“No, dear, not you. It’s Amy.” + +“Oh, Mother! She’s too young, it’s my turn first. I’ve wanted it so +long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid. I +must go!” + +“I’m afraid it’s impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is +not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor.” + +“It’s always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn’t +fair, oh, it isn’t fair!” cried Jo passionately. + +“I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the +other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit, +and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said—‘I planned at +first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden her’, and she ‘hates French’, I +think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a +good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may +give her.” + +“Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can’t I learn to keep it +quiet?” groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When +she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said +sorrowfully... + +“I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so +try to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure by +reproaches or regrets.” + +“I’ll try,” said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the +basket she had joyfully upset. “I’ll take a leaf out of her book, and +try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute +of happiness. But it won’t be easy, for it is a dreadful +disappointment,” and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held +with several very bitter tears. + +“Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I couldn’t spare you, and I’m glad you +are not going quite yet,” whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and +all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted +in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, +and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how +gratefully she would bear it. + +By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family +jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without +repinings at Amy’s good fortune. The young lady herself received the +news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, +and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving +such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in +visions of art than herself. + +“It isn’t a mere pleasure trip to me, girls,” she said impressively, as +she scraped her best palette. “It will decide my career, for if I have +any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove +it.” + +“Suppose you haven’t?” said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new +collars which were to be handed over to Amy. + +“Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,” replied the +aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face +at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on +vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes. + +“No, you won’t. You hate hard work, and you’ll marry some rich man, and +come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,” said Jo. + +“Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don’t believe that one +will. I’m sure I wish it would, for if I can’t be an artist myself, I +should like to be able to help those who are,” said Amy, smiling, as if +the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor +drawing teacher. + +“Hum!” said Jo, with a sigh. “If you wish it you’ll have it, for your +wishes are always granted—mine never.” + +“Would you like to go?” asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with +her knife. + +“Rather!” + +“Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in the Forum +for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so many times.” + +“Thank you. I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, +if it ever does,” returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent +offer as gratefully as she could. + +There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment +till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue +ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried +till she couldn’t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the +steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it +suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her +and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last +lingerer, saying with a sob... + +“Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen...” + +“I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I’ll come and comfort +you,” whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to +keep his word. + +So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and +beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from +the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall +the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see +nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE +OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT + + +London + + +Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, +Piccadilly. It’s not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years +ago, and won’t go anywhere else. However, we don’t mean to stay long, +so it’s no great matter. Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how I enjoy it +all! I never can, so I’ll only give you bits out of my notebook, for +I’ve done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. + + +I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after +that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of +pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially +the officers. Don’t laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary +aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have +nothing to do, it’s a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would +smoke themselves to death, I’m afraid. + + +Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so +when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such +walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost +as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. +I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good. As +for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever +the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted +on the captain’s speaking trumpet, she’d have been in such a state of +rapture. + + +It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found +it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, +ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen’s countryseats in the +valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, +but I didn’t regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of +little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I +never shall forget it. + + +At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when +I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, +with a look at me... + + +“Oh, have you e’er heard of Kate Kearney? +She lives on the banks of Killarney; +From the glance of her eye, +Shun danger and fly, +For fatal’s the glance of Kate Kearney.” + + +Wasn’t that nonsensical? + + +We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It’s a dirty, noisy place, +and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of +dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved +_à la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he +looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned +off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in +them, and said, with a grin, “There yer har, sir. I’ve given ’em the +latest Yankee shine.” It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you +what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with +us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was +a lovely one, with “Robert Lennox’s compliments,” on the card. Wasn’t +that fun, girls? I like traveling. + + +I never shall get to London if I don’t hurry. The trip was like riding +through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The +farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, +latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The +very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in +clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got +nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass +so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a +rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to +the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the +rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but +Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn’t be astonished at anything. This +is the way we went on. Amy, flying up—“Oh, that must be Kenilworth, +that gray place among the trees!” Flo, darting to my window—“How sweet! +We must go there sometime, won’t we Papa?” Uncle, calmly admiring his +boots—“No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that’s a brewery.” + + +A pause—then Flo cried out, “Bless me, there’s a gallows and a man +going up.” “Where, where?” shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts +with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. “A colliery,” remarks Uncle, +with a twinkle of the eye. “Here’s a lovely flock of lambs all lying +down,” says Amy. “See, Papa, aren’t they pretty?” added Flo +sentimentally. “Geese, young ladies,” returns Uncle, in a tone that +keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of +Captain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself. + + +Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be +seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little +between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off +in such a hurry I wasn’t half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a +muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping +in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice +ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my +gloves in Paris. Doesn’t that sound sort of elegant and rich? + + +Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and +Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that +it wasn’t the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so +droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so +fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up +outside behind somewhere, and I couldn’t get at him. He didn’t hear me +call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite +helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck +pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on +poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said... + + +“Now, then, mum?” + + +I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with +an “Aye, aye, mum,” the man made his horse walk, as if going to a +funeral. I poked again and said, “A little faster,” then off he went, +helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. + + +Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more +aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often +see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington’s +house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as +Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and +yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet +coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the +rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, +dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and +tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, +looking so funny I longed to sketch them. + + +Rotten Row means ‘Route de Roi’, or the king’s way, but now it’s more +like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and +the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and +bounce, which isn’t according to our rules. I longed to show them a +tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in +their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy +Noah’s Ark. Everyone rides—old men, stout ladies, little children—and +the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose +buds, for it’s the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought +it rather a nice little idea. + + +In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don’t expect me to describe it, +that’s impossible, so I’ll only say it was sublime! This evening we are +going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest +day of my life. + + +It’s very late, but I can’t let my letter go in the morning without +telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we +were at tea? Laurie’s English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so +surprised, for I shouldn’t have known them but for the cards. Both are +tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and +Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. +They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to +their house, but Uncle won’t go, so we shall return the call, and see +them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such +a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked +over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all +our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her +ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his ‘respectful +compliments to the big hat’. Neither of them had forgotten Camp +Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn’t it? + + +Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I +really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, +with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, +theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say “Ah!” and twirl +their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see +you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving... + + +AMY + + +PARIS + + +Dear girls, + + +In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns +were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips +to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for +at Hampton I saw Raphael’s cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of +pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great +creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular +English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I +could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We ‘did’ +London to our heart’s content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry +to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when +they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in +hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, +and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don’t, for Grace and I +are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred. + + +Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he +had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober +at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn’t say a word. And now +we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like +a native, and I don’t know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn’t +know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it +would make people understand him. Aunt’s pronunciation is +old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we +knew a good deal, find we don’t, and are very grateful to have Fred do +the ‘_parley vooing_’, as Uncle calls it. + + +Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till +night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with +all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, +revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the +finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I’m +cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics +of great people better, for I’ve seen her Napoleon’s cocked hat and +gray coat, his baby’s cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie +Antoinette’s little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne’s sword, +and many other interesting things. I’ll talk for hours about them when +I come, but haven’t time to write. + + +The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and +lovely things that I’m nearly distracted because I can’t buy them. Fred +wanted to get me some, but of course I didn’t allow it. Then the Bois +and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I’ve seen the imperial family +several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale +and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought—purple dress, green +hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting +to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his +four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted +guard before and behind. + + +We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the +antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very +curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, +one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for +the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. + + +Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look +up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend +our evenings talking there when too tired with our day’s work to go +out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable +young man I ever knew—except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I +wish Fred was dark, for I don’t fancy light men, however, the Vaughns +are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won’t find fault +with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. + + +Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel +fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, +and try to ‘remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and +admire’, as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my +sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. + + +Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _“Votre Amie.”_ + + +HEIDELBERG + + +My dear Mamma, + + +Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I’ll try to tell you +what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. + + +The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with +all my might. Get Father’s old guidebooks and read about it. I haven’t +words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely +time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the +boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one +o’clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our +windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed +us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most +romantic thing I ever saw—the river, the bridge of boats, the great +fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart +of stone. + + +When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble +for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing +away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me +one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very +sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn’t throw it, but Flo, +which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and +turned sensible again. I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble with that +boy, it begins to look like it. + + +The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost +some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when +Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he’d marry soon, and I +quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was +delightful. I saw Goethe’s house, Schiller’s statue, and Dannecker’s +famous ‘Ariadne.’ It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more +if I had known the story better. I didn’t like to ask, as everyone knew +it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought +to have read more, for I find I don’t know anything, and it mortifies +me. + + +Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just +gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. +I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the +serenade night. Since then I’ve begun to feel that the moonlight walks, +balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than +fun. I haven’t flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to +me, and have done my very best. I can’t help it if people like me. I +don’t try to make them, and it worries me if I don’t care for them, +though Jo says I haven’t got any heart. Now I know Mother will shake +her head, and the girls say, “Oh, the mercenary little wretch!”, but +I’ve made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though +I’m not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. +He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich—ever so much richer +than the Laurences. I don’t think his family would object, and I should +be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and +they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I +suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable +street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and +full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for +it’s genuine. I’ve seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, +and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely +grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I’d +rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and +find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don’t +mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry +well. Meg didn’t, Jo won’t, Beth can’t yet, so I shall, and make +everything okay all round. I wouldn’t marry a man I hated or despised. +You may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does +very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very +fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I’ve been turning the +matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help +seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed +it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, +table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at +anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an +Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a +rakish-looking baron, about ‘_ein wonderschones Blondchen’_, Fred +looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew +off his plate. He isn’t one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is +rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from +his bonnie blue eyes. + + +Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all +of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post +Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, +the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by +the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace +best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms +inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion’s head on the +wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I’d +got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through +the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and +waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that +something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn’t feel +blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited. + + +By-and-by I heard Fred’s voice, and then he came hurrying through the +great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about +myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he’d just got a letter +begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at +once on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was very +sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute +because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could +not mistake, “I shall soon come back, you won’t forget me, Amy?” + + +I didn’t promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and +there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was +off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to +speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised +his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash +boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall +soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don’t change my mind, I’ll say “Yes, +thank you,” when he says “Will you, please?” + + +Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was +going on. Don’t be anxious about me, remember I am your ‘prudent Amy’, +and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you +like. I’ll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, +Marmee. Love and trust me. + + +Ever your AMY + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO +TENDER TROUBLES + + +“Jo, I’m anxious about Beth.” + +“Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came.” + +“It’s not her health that troubles me now, it’s her spirits. I’m sure +there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is.” + +“What makes you think so, Mother?” + +“She sits alone a good deal, and doesn’t talk to her father as much as +she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she +sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in +her face that I don’t understand. This isn’t like Beth, and it worries +me.” + +“Have you asked her about it?” + +“I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or +looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children’s +confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long.” + +Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed +quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth’s, and after +sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, “I think she is growing up, +and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, +without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth’s +eighteen, but we don’t realize it, and treat her like a child, +forgetting she’s a woman.” + +“So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up,” returned her mother +with a sigh and a smile. + +“Can’t be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of +worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise +never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you.” + +“It’s a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home, +now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon, +but when the tug comes, you are always ready.” + +“Why, you know I don’t mind hard jobs much, and there must always be +one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I’m not, but I +feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the +family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if +anything is amiss at home, I’m your man.” + +“I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little +heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don’t let +her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get +quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn’t have a wish in the world.” + +“Happy woman! I’ve got heaps.” + +“My dear, what are they?” + +“I’ll settle Bethy’s troubles, and then I’ll tell you mine. They are +not very wearing, so they’ll keep.” and Jo stitched away, with a wise +nod which set her mother’s heart at rest about her for the present at +least. + +While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and +after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which +seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue +to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the +rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when +she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her +eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, +Beth’s work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon +her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, +autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an +operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, “All serene! Coming in +tonight.” + +Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by +till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, “How +strong and well and happy that dear boy looks.” + +“Hum!” said Jo, still intent upon her sister’s face, for the bright +color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a +tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her +half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. +Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about +needing more paper. + +“Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!” she said, sitting down in her own +room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had +just made. “I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I +wonder if her...” there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden +thought. “If he shouldn’t love back again, how dreadful it would be. He +must. I’ll make him!” and she shook her head threateningly at the +picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. +“Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here’s Meg married and a +mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I’m the only +one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief.” Jo thought intently +for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out +her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face +opposite, “No thank you, sir, you’re very charming, but you’ve no more +stability than a weathercock. So you needn’t write touching notes and +smile in that insinuating way, for it won’t do a bit of good, and I +won’t have it.” + +Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake +till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which +only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked +with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, +but so was everybody’s. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he +cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression +had prevailed in the family of late that ‘our boy’ was getting fonder +than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn’t hear a word upon the subject +and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known +the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they +would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” But +Jo hated ‘philandering’, and wouldn’t allow it, always having a joke or +a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger. + +When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, +but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much +amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, +despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly +conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at +many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged +occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender +subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, +and gave out that he was going to ‘dig’, intending to graduate in a +blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight +confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the +eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred +imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former +could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter +were less manageable. + +Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo +watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not +got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in +the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But +having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at +a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course +of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on +the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all +sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly ‘spin’, and he never +disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth’s eyes rested +on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that +she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting +cricket match, though the phrases, ‘caught off a tice’, ‘stumped off +his ground’, and ‘the leg hit for three’, were as intelligible to her +as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, +that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie’s manner, that +he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a +little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth’s feet with an +assiduity that was really almost tender. + +“Who knows? Stranger things have happened,” thought Jo, as she fussed +about the room. “She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make +life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love +each other. I don’t see how he can help it, and I do believe he would +if the rest of us were out of the way.” + +As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she +ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? +And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she +sat down to settle that point. + +Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa—long, broad, +well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the +girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, +rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested +tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young +women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner +had always been Jo’s favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows +that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with +prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This +repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of +defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber. + +Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep +aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when +romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he +most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If ‘the sausage’ as they +called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and +repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child +who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, +and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form +appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both +long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of +satisfaction... + +“Now, this is filling at the price.” + +“No slang,” snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, +there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared +in a most mysterious manner. + +“Come, Jo, don’t be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all +the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it.” + +“Beth will pet you. I’m busy.” + +“No, she’s not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, +unless you’ve suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate +your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?” + +Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, +but Jo quenched ‘her boy’ by turning on him with a stern query, “How +many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?” + +“Not one, upon my word. She’s engaged. Now then.” + +“I’m glad of it, that’s one of your foolish extravagances, sending +flowers and things to girls for whom you don’t care two pins,” +continued Jo reprovingly. + +“Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won’t let me +send them ‘flowers and things’, so what can I do? My feelings need a +‘vent’.” + +“Mother doesn’t approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt +desperately, Teddy.” + +“I’d give anything if I could answer, ‘So do you’. As I can’t, I’ll +merely say that I don’t see any harm in that pleasant little game, if +all parties understand that it’s only play.” + +“Well, it does look pleasant, but I can’t learn how it’s done. I’ve +tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else +is doing, but I don’t seem to get on”, said Jo, forgetting to play +mentor. + +“Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it.” + +“Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I +suppose it’s natural to some people to please without trying, and +others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place.” + +“I’m glad you can’t flirt. It’s really refreshing to see a sensible, +straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool +of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do +go on at such a rate I’m ashamed of them. They don’t mean any harm, I’m +sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, +they’d mend their ways, I fancy.” + +“They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows +get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you +behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they +keep it up, and then you blame them.” + +“Much you know about it, ma’am,” said Laurie in a superior tone. “We +don’t like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. +The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, +among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place +for a month you’d see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my +word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say +with our friend Cock Robin... + +“Out upon you, fie upon you, +Bold-faced jig!” + + +It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between +Laurie’s chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very +natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society +showed him many samples. Jo knew that ‘young Laurence’ was regarded as +a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their +daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb +of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be +spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still +believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, +she said, dropping her voice, “If you must have a ‘vent’, Teddy, go and +devote yourself to one of the ‘pretty, modest girls’ whom you do +respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones.” + +“You really advise it?” and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of +anxiety and merriment in his face. + +“Yes, I do, but you’d better wait till you are through college, on the +whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You’re not half +good enough for—well, whoever the modest girl may be.” and Jo looked a +little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her. + +“That I’m not!” acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite +new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo’s apron tassel +round his finger. + +“Mercy on us, this will never do,” thought Jo, adding aloud, “Go and +sing to me. I’m dying for some music, and always like yours.” + +“I’d rather stay here, thank you.” + +“Well, you can’t, there isn’t room. Go and make yourself useful, since +you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a +woman’s apron string?” retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of +his own. + +“Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!” and Laurie gave an audacious +tweak at the tassel. + +“Are you going?” demanded Jo, diving for the pillow. + +He fled at once, and the minute it was well, “Up with the bonnets of +bonnie Dundee,” she slipped away to return no more till the young +gentleman departed in high dudgeon. + +Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound +of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth’s bedside, with the anxious +inquiry, “What is it, dear?” + +“I thought you were asleep,” sobbed Beth. + +“Is it the old pain, my precious?” + +“No, it’s a new one, but I can bear it,” and Beth tried to check her +tears. + +“Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other.” + +“You can’t, there is no cure.” There Beth’s voice gave way, and +clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was +frightened. + +“Where is it? Shall I call Mother?” + +“No, no, don’t call her, don’t tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie +down here and ‘poor’ my head. I’ll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I +will.” + +Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth’s hot +forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to +speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, +cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she +believed she knew the cause of Beth’s new pain, she only said, in her +tenderest tone, “Does anything trouble you, deary?” + +“Yes, Jo,” after a long pause. + +“Wouldn’t it comfort you to tell me what it is?” + +“Not now, not yet.” + +“Then I won’t ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always +glad to hear and help you, if they can.” + +“I know it. I’ll tell you by-and-by.” + +“Is the pain better now?” + +“Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo.” + +“Go to sleep, dear. I’ll stay with you.” + +So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite +herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and +a loving word can medicine most ills. + +But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for +some days, she confided it to her mother. + +“You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I’ll tell you one of +them, Marmee,” she began, as they sat along together. “I want to go +away somewhere this winter for a change.” + +“Why, Jo?” and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested +a double meaning. + +With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, “I want something new. I +feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I +am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, +so as I can be spared this winter, I’d like to hop a little way and try +my wings.” + +“Where will you hop?” + +“To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know +Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her +children and sew. It’s rather hard to find just the thing, but I think +I should suit if I tried.” + +“My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!” and Mrs. +March looked surprised, but not displeased. + +“It’s not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your +friend—the kindest soul that ever lived—and would make things pleasant +for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows +me there. Don’t care if they do. It’s honest work, and I’m not ashamed +of it.” + +“Nor I. But your writing?” + +“All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get +new ideas, and even if I haven’t much time there, I shall bring home +quantities of material for my rubbish.” + +“I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden +fancy?” + +“No, Mother.” + +“May I know the others?” + +Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in +her cheeks. “It may be vain and wrong to say it, but—I’m afraid—Laurie +is getting too fond of me.” + +“Then you don’t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care +for you?” and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question. + +“Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely +proud of him, but as for anything more, it’s out of the question.” + +“I’m glad of that, Jo.” + +“Why, please?” + +“Because, dear, I don’t think you suited to one another. As friends you +are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear +you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike +and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, +to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience +and forbearance, as well as love.” + +“That’s just the feeling I had, though I couldn’t express it. I’m glad +you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me +sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn’t fall in love with the dear +old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?” + +“You are sure of his feeling for you?” + +The color deepened in Jo’s cheeks as she answered, with the look of +mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking +of first lovers, “I’m afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn’t said anything, +but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes +to anything.” + +“I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go.” + +Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, “How Mrs. Moffat +would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will +rejoice that Annie may still hope.” + +“Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the +same in all—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am +content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you +tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something +sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. +For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, +she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?’ + +“Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I +said no more, for I think I know it,” and Jo told her little story. + +Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the +case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie’s sake +Jo should go away for a time. + +“Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I’ll +run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think +I’m going to please myself, as I am, for I can’t talk about Laurie to +her. But she can pet and comfort him after I’m gone, and so cure him of +this romantic notion. He’s been through so many little trials of the +sort, he’s used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity.” + +Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear +that this ‘little trial’ would be harder than the others, and that +Laurie would not get over his ‘lovelornity’ as easily as heretofore. + +The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. +Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. +The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got +might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society +would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager +to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless +nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and +trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. +He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when +jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, “So I +am, and I mean this one shall stay turned.” + +Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on +just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth +seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all. + +“One thing I leave in your especial care,” she said, the night before +she left. + +“You mean your papers?” asked Beth. + +“No, my boy. Be very good to him, won’t you?” + +“Of course I will, but I can’t fill your place, and he’ll miss you +sadly.” + +“It won’t hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, +pet, and keep in order.” + +“I’ll do my best, for your sake,” promised Beth, wondering why Jo +looked at her so queerly. + +When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, “It won’t do a +bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I’ll come +and bring you home.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE +JO’S JOURNAL + + +New York, November + + +Dear Marmee and Beth, + + +I’m going to write you a regular volume, for I’ve got heaps to tell, +though I’m not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I +lost sight of Father’s dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might +have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small +children, all crying more or less, hadn’t diverted my mind, for I +amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time +they opened their mouths to roar. + + +Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up +likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart. + + +Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that +big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor—all +she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny +window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a +church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to +my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a +pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke’s private parlor, and the two little +girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me +after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I’ve no doubt I shall make a +model governess. + + +I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great +table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will +believe it. + + +“Now, my dear, make yourself at home,” said Mrs. K. in her motherly +way, “I’m on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with +such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the +children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your +own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant +people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always +free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. +There’s the tea bell, I must run and change my cap.” And off she +bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest. + + +As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights +are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of +the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman +come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, +carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, +saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, “It goes better so. The +little back is too young to haf such heaviness.” + + +Wasn’t it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles +show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she +laughed, and said, “That must have been Professor Bhaer, he’s always +doing things of that sort.” + + +Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as +a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little +orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of +his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it +interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor +for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the +nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I’ll tell you how he +looks. He’s almost forty, so it’s no harm, Marmee. + + +After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the +big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I +shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and +more tomorrow. + + +Tuesday Eve + + +Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted +like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all +round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up +till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the +girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little +Mabel ‘with a willing mind’. I was thanking my stars that I’d learned +to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and +someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was +dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn’t resist the temptation, and +lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. +Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a +good look at him. A regular German—rather stout, with brown hair +tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I +ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one’s ears good, after our +sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands +were large, and he hadn’t a really handsome feature in his face, except +his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen +was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were +off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in +spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth +bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old +friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in +a loud, brisk tone, “Herein!” + + +I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child +carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on. + + +“Me wants me Bhaer,” said the mite, slamming down her book and running +to meet him. + + +“Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my +Tina,” said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding +her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss +him. + + +“Now me mus tuddy my lessin,” went on the funny little thing. So he put +her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and +gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now +and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if +finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, +while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look +that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French +than German. + + +Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my +work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and +gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing +affectedly, and saying, “Now Professor,” in a coquettish tone, and the +other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard +for him to keep sober. + + +Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him +say emphatically, “No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I +say,” and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his +book, followed by the despairing exclamation, “Prut! It all goes bad +this day.” + + +Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one +more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself +back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the +clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if +ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep +on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a +hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn’t go down to the five +o’clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, +just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I +made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as +she is short and I’m tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a +failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I +plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and +every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who +seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the +word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual +assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed +in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in +politics. I don’t think I shall care to have much to do with any of +them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had +something in her. + + +Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting +answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on +one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy +had been here, she’d have turned her back on him forever because, sad +to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a +manner which would have horrified ‘her ladyship’. I didn’t mind, for I +like ‘to see folks eat with a relish’, as Hannah says, and the poor man +must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day. + + +As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling +their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the +other, “Who’s the new party?” + + +“Governess, or something of that sort.” + + +“What the deuce is she at our table for?” + + +“Friend of the old lady’s.” + + +“Handsome head, but no style.” + + +“Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.” + + +I felt angry at first, and then I didn’t care, for a governess is as +good as a clerk, and I’ve got sense, if I haven’t style, which is more +than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings +who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people! + + +Thursday + + +Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my +little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a +few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that +Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the +laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and +follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which +delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a ‘bacheldore’. +Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all +sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, +and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems, +call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of +jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and +takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his +foreign ways. + + +The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke +to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it’s such fun to +watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has +fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, +so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good +society, only it isn’t the same sort that Amy likes. + + +I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some +newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn’t there, but Minnie, who is a +little old woman, introduced me very prettily. “This is Mamma’s friend, +Miss March.” + + +“Yes, and she’s jolly and we like her lots,” added Kitty, who is an +‘enfant terrible’. + + +We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the +blunt addition were rather a comical contrast. + + +“Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so +again, call at me and I come,” he said, with a threatening frown that +delighted the little wretches. + + +I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to +see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out, +by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and +there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand +and a darning needle in the other. He didn’t seem at all ashamed of it, +for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, +saying in his loud, cheerful way... + + +“You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle.” + + +I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to +think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German +gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not +so pretty. + + +Saturday + + +Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who +has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she +showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with +her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put +it as a favor, but I’m sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she +does it out of kindness to me. I’m as proud as Lucifer, but such favors +from such people don’t burden me, and I accepted gratefully. + + +When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor +that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, +with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie +feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in +cages built of chairs. + + +“We are playing nargerie,” explained Kitty. + + +“Dis is mine effalunt!” added Tina, holding on by the Professor’s hair. + + +“Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when +Franz and Emil come, doesn’t she, Mr. Bhaer?” said Minnie. + + +The ‘effalunt’ sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and +said soberly to me, “I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a +noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly.” + + +I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much +as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played +tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they +all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming +fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little +‘koblods’, who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were +as simple and natural as Germans, don’t you? + + +I’m so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of +economy didn’t stop me, for though I’ve used thin paper and written +fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray +forward Amy’s as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound +very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy +studying so hard that he can’t find time to write to his friends? Take +good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and +give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo. + + +P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I +am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to +write about. Bless you! + + +DECEMBER + + +My Precious Betsey, + + +As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it +may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though +quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what +Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral +agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend +as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the +boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil +are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of +German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of +effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in +the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a +seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such +fun! + + +We are very good friends now, and I’ve begun to take lessons. I really +couldn’t help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must +tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as +I passed Mr. Bhaer’s room where she was rummaging. + + +“Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these +books to rights, for I’ve turned everything upside down, trying to +discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not +long ago.” + + +I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was ‘a den’ to +be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old +flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any +tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the +other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the +manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and +traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of +himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three +of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered +with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder. + + +“Such a man!” laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in +the rag bag. “I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage +cut fingers, or make kite tails. It’s dreadful, but I can’t scold him. +He’s so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him +roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to +give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a +sad pass sometimes.” + + +“Let me mend them,” said I. “I don’t mind it, and he needn’t know. I’d +like to, he’s so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending +books.” + + +So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the +socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing +was said, and I hoped he wouldn’t find it out, but one day last week he +caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested +and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in +and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near +this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what +he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, +and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling +over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little +crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing +quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him. + + +“So!” he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, “you peep at me, I +peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I +say, haf you a wish for German?” + + +“Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,” I blundered out, +as red as a peony. + + +“Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At +efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you, +Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.” And he pointed to my work ‘Yes,’ +they say to one another, these so kind ladies, ‘he is a stupid old +fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock +heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new +when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.’ “Ah! But I +haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this. +Come, a little lesson then and now, or—no more good fairy works for me +and mine.” + + +Of course I couldn’t say anything after that, and as it really is a +splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four +lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was +very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and +then he’d look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it +was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and +when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw +the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself +disgraced and deserted forever, but didn’t blame him a particle, and +was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake +myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I’d covered +myself in glory. + + +“Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little +_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the +corner for making us trouble.” + + +He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson’s fairy tales so +invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my +lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I +forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) +with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to +inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished +reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and +cried out in his hearty way, “Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I +do him in German, gif me your ear.” And away he went, rumbling out the +words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well +as hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which is +droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn’t +understand half he read, for I couldn’t help it, he was so earnest, I +so excited, and the whole thing so comical. + + +After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for +this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets +tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it +very much, and he doesn’t seem tired of it yet, which is very good of +him, isn’t it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare +not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee. + + +I’m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking +and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I’m +not jealous, dear, do your best, only don’t make a saint of him. I’m +afraid I couldn’t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read +him bits of my letters. I haven’t time to write much, and that will do +just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable. + + +JANUARY + + +A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course +includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can’t tell you +how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn’t get it till +night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you +said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was +disappointed, for I’d had a ‘kind of feeling’ that you wouldn’t forget +me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea, +and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I +just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat +down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in +my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the +better for being made instead of bought. Beth’s new ‘ink bib’ was +capital, and Hannah’s box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I’ll +be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully +the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps! + + +Speaking of books reminds me that I’m getting rich in that line, for on +New Year’s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he +values much, and I’ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor +with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how +I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own +name in it, “from my friend Friedrich Bhaer”. + + +“You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between +these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and +he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will +help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen.” + + +I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about ‘my library’, as +if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in +Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me. +Now don’t laugh at his horrid name. It isn’t pronounced either Bear or +Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only +Germans can give it. I’m glad you both like what I tell you about him, +and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm +heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new +‘friend Friedrich Bhaer’. + + +Not having much money, or knowing what he’d like, I got several little +things, and put them about the room, where he would find them +unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his +table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of +green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his +blower, so that he needn’t burn up what Amy calls ‘mouchoirs’. I made +it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black +and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy +immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so +it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn’t forget a +servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French +laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that. + + +They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year’s Eve. I didn’t +mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke +remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and +feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask +on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the +silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, +most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress, +and burst out into a ‘nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on +the banks of the Nile’. I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it +was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell +another that he knew I’d been an actress, in fact, he thought he +remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that +joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little +fairy in his arms. To see them dance was ‘quite a landscape’, to use a +Teddyism. + + +I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in +my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many +failures, for I’m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take +more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. +Bless you all! Ever your loving... Jo + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR +FRIEND + + +Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy +with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the +effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now +took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, +but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that +money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to +have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved +more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth +everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her +bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so +that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years +Jo’s most cherished castle in the air. + +The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after +long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en +Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for +public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on +bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed +awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the +least lovely of the giant’s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the +‘up again and take another’ spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so +she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but +nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags. + +She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even +all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a +‘thrilling tale’, and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor +of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had +a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over +many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she +dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she +was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and +dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar +smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels +rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them +took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this +reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much +embarrassment... + +“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to +see Mr. Dashwood.” + +Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, +and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced +with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling +that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her +manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, +blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the +occasion. + +“A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an +experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this +suits.” + +While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, +and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, +and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages. + +“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were +numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure +sign of a novice. + +“No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in +the _Blarneystone Banner_.” + +“Oh, did she?” and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to +take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the +buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve more +of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, +but I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.” + +Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her at +all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but +bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was +apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was +perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the +gentlemen that her little fiction of ‘my friend’ was considered a good +joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as +he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to +return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching +pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh +over the scene and long for next week. + +When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr. +Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr. +Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his +manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the +first. + +“We’ll take this (editors never say I), if you don’t object to a few +alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve marked will +make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike tone. + +Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its +pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being +asked to cut off her baby’s legs in order that it might fit into a new +cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find +that all the moral reflections—which she had carefully put in as +ballast for much romance—had been stricken out. + +“But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I +took care to have a few of my sinners repent.” + +Mr. Dashwoods’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had +forgotten her ‘friend’, and spoken as only an author could. + +“People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t sell +nowadays.” Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way. + +“You think it would do with these alterations, then?” + +“Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language good, and so +on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply. + +“What do you—that is, what compensation—” began Jo, not exactly knowing +how to express herself. + +“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this +sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point +had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said. + +“Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with a +satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five +seemed good pay. + +“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better +than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and +emboldened by her success. + +“Well, we’ll look at it. Can’t promise to take it. Tell her to make it +short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend +like to put on it?” in a careless tone. + +“None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear and +has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself. + +“Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you +call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a +natural desire to know who his new contributor might be. + +“I’ll call. Good morning, Sir.” + +As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful +remark, “Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.” + +Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her +model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational +literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, +she came up again not much the worse for her ducking. + +Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and +scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared +upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit +as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such +trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood +graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not +thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his +hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher +wages, had basely left him in the lurch. + +She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew +stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the +mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One +thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell +them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not +approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon +afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with +her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but +promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word. + +She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write +nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of +conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show +her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret. + +But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could +not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, +history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and +lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found +that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the +tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business +light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic +energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them +original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers +for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of +public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in +the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. +She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old +that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, +and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought +she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to +desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman’s character. She +was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence +affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and +unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her +nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which +comes soon enough to all of us. + +She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of +other people’s passions and feelings set her to studying and +speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young +minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own +punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it. + +I don’t know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read +character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, +brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every +perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who +interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one +of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and +lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a +writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and +studied him—a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he +known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit. + +Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither +rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called +fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a +genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as +about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving +something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer +young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face +looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his +sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last +decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any +sorrow, ‘it sat with its head under its wing’, and he turned only his +sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time +seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to +others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many +friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and +his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than +words. + +His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the +wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him +comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart +underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets +plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full. +His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy +like other people’s. + +“That’s it!” said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that +genuine good will toward one’s fellow men could beautify and dignify +even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own +socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer. + +Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine +respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the +Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself, +and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much +honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came +to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss +Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it +all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to +know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor +language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much +beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it. +Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most +unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which +Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman +felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many +favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with +her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several +celebrities. + +Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had +worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for +genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to +recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and +women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid +admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on +‘spirit, fire, and dew’, to behold him devouring his supper with an +ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a +fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her +romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters +with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly +with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at +another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering +her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea +Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady +rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting +their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting +themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young +musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked +horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be +the most ordinary man of the party. + +Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned, +that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined +her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the +philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an +intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles +beyond Jo’s comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel +were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, +and the only thing ‘evolved from her inner consciousness’ was a bad +headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the +world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and, +according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before, +that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and +intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or +metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, +half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being +turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a +holiday. + +She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him +looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear. +He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated +just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, +trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after +they had annihilated all the old beliefs. + +Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, +not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be +lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people, +attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit +his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul +would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over +that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand. + +He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an +opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion +with all the eloquence of truth—an eloquence which made his broken +English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for +the wise men argued well, but he didn’t know when he was beaten and +stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got +right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed +better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was not +a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground +under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one +whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him. + +She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor +her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out +then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She +began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, +intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man +has defined it to be, ‘truth, reverence, and good will’, then her +friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great. + +This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his +respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the +wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out +of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her +lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there +and he had forgotten to take off. + +“It’s evident he doesn’t look in his glass before coming down,” thought +Jo, with a smile, as he said “Goot efening,” and sat soberly down, +quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his +headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein. + +She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, +hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover +it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German +read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came +the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that +night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The +Professor didn’t know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask +with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . . + +“Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face? Haf you no +respect for me, that you go on so bad?” + +“How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?” +said Jo. + +Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt +and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then +threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol. + +“Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my +cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, +you too shall wear him.” + +But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer +caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great +disgust, “I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not +for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I +haf no patience with those who make this harm.” + +Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a +lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the +impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, +because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not, +however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had +been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to +betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush, +for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than +people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the +newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he +asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it +occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it +troubled him. He did not say to himself, “It is none of my business. +I’ve no right to say anything,” as many people would have done. He only +remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother’s +love and father’s care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as +quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to +save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a +minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the +paper was turned, and Jo’s needle threaded, he was ready to say quite +naturally, but very gravely... + +“Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young +girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I +would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad +trash.” + +“All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for +it, I don’t see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people +make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories,” said +Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits +followed her pin. + +“There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to +sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would +not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in +the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a +little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing.” + +Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in +his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for +her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and +gone harmlessly up the chimney. + +“I should like much to send all the rest after him,” muttered the +Professor, coming back with a relieved air. + +Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her +hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. +Then she thought consolingly to herself, “Mine are not like that, they +are only silly, never bad, so I won’t be worried,” and taking up her +book, she said, with a studious face, “Shall we go on, Sir? I’ll be +very good and proper now.” + +“I shall hope so,” was all he said, but he meant more than she +imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the +words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead. + +As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully +reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer +sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see +how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have +on the Professor’s mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of +these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay. + +“They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is +more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting myself +and other people, for the sake of money. I know it’s so, for I can’t +read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, +and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of +them?” + +Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her +stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze. + +“Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I’d better +burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves +up with my gunpowder,” she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura +whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes. + +But when nothing remained of all her three month’s work except a heap +of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the +floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages. + +“I think I haven’t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my +time,” she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, “I almost +wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If I didn’t care +about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I +should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing sometimes, that Mother +and Father hadn’t been so particular about such things.” + +Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that ‘Father and Mother were +particular’, and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians +to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to +impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build +character upon in womanhood. + +Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not +pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as +is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. +Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale +which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so +intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, +for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new +style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous +costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several +markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with +Mr. Dashwood that morals didn’t sell. + +Then she tried a child’s story, which she could easily have disposed of +if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The +only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try +juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to +convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked +to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty +boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did +not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did +go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to +escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons +on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo +corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility... + +“I don’t know anything. I’ll wait until I do before I try again, and +meantime, ‘sweep mud in the street’ if I can’t do better, that’s +honest, at least.” Which decision proved that her second tumble down +the beanstalk had done her some good. + +While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had +been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked +serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did +it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would +accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was +satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she +had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the +second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her +evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and +studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on +occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant. + +He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was +happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons +besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her +own life. + +It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. +Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children +were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer’s hair stuck straight up all over his +head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind. + +“Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,” he said, +when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, +while she held a little levee on that last evening. + +She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when +his turn came, she said warmly, “Now, Sir, you won’t forget to come and +see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I’ll never forgive you if +you do, for I want them all to know my friend.” + +“Do you? Shall I come?” he asked, looking down at her with an eager +expression which she did not see. + +“Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you’d enjoy +commencement as something new.” + +“That is your best friend, of whom you speak?” he said in an altered +tone. + +“Yes, my boy Teddy. I’m very proud of him and should like you to see +him.” + +Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure +in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. +Bhaer’s face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more +than a ‘best friend’, and simply because she particularly wished not to +look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, +and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been +for Tina on her knee. She didn’t know what would have become of her. +Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her +face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and +his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual +expression, as he said cordially... + +“I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much +success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!” And with that, he +shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away. + +But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the +tired look on his face and the ‘heimweh’, or homesickness, lying heavy +at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little +child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head +on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search +of something that he could not find. + +“It is not for me, I must not hope it now,” he said to himself, with a +sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the +longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled +heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened +his Plato. + +He did his best and did it manfully, but I don’t think he found that a +pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very +satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home. + +Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and +thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory +of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her +company, and best of all, the happy thought, “Well, the winter’s gone, +and I’ve written no books, earned no fortune, but I’ve made a friend +worth having and I’ll try to keep him all my life.” + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE +HEARTACHE + + +Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose +that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with +the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his +friends said. They were all there, his grandfather—oh, so proud—Mr. and +Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with +the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail +to win from the world by any after-triumphs. + +“I’ve got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early +tomorrow. You’ll come and meet me as usual, girls?” Laurie said, as he +put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. +He said ‘girls’, but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up +the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, +successful boy anything, and answered warmly... + +“I’ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing ‘Hail +the conquering hero comes’ on a jew’s-harp.” + +Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, +“Oh, deary me! I know he’ll say something, and then what shall I do?” + +Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and +having decided that she wouldn’t be vain enough to think people were +going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her +answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy +wouldn’t do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at +Meg’s, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still +further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart +figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about +and run away. + +“Where’s the jew’s-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as he was within +speaking distance. + +“I forgot it.” And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not +be called lover-like. + +She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, +and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly +about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road +into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he +walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now +and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one +of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, +“Now you must have a good long holiday!” + +“I intend to.” + +Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him +looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded +moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, “No, +Teddy. Please don’t!” + +“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo, we’ve got to have it +out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting +flushed and excited all at once. + +“Say what you like then. I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort +of patience. + +Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to ‘have it +out’, if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with +characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now +and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady... + +“I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo, couldn’t help it, you’ve +been so good to me. I’ve tried to show it, but you wouldn’t let me. Now +I’m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can’t go on so +any longer.” + +“I wanted to save you this. I thought you’d understand...” began Jo, +finding it a great deal harder than she expected. + +“I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they +mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits +just for the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an +undeniable fact. + +“I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to +keep you from it if I could.” + +“I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all +the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and +everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I +hoped you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough...” Here there was +a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while +he cleared his ‘confounded throat’. + +“You, you are, you’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful +to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don’t know why I can’t love you +as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t change the feeling, and it +would be a lie to say I do when I don’t.” + +“Really, truly, Jo?” + +He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with +a look that she did not soon forget. + +“Really, truly, dear.” + +They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words +fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as +if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him. +So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still +that Jo was frightened. + +“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it +would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard, I can’t help +it. You know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love other +people if they don’t,” cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she +softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted +her so long ago. + +“They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post. “I don’t +believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not try it,” was +the decided answer. + +There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow +by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said +very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, “Laurie, I want +to tell you something.” + +He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in +a fierce tone, “Don’t tell me that, Jo, I can’t bear it now!” + +“Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence. + +“That you love that old man.” + +“What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather. + +“That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you +love him, I know I shall do something desperate;” and he looked as if +he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark +in his eyes. + +Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she +too, was getting excited with all this, “Don’t swear, Teddy! He isn’t +old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I’ve got, +next to you. Pray, don’t fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I +know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven’t the least +idea of loving him or anybody else.” + +“But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?” + +“You’ll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this +trouble.” + +“I can’t love anyone else, and I’ll never forget you, Jo, Never! +Never!” with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. + +“What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more +unmanagable than she expected. “You haven’t heard what I wanted to tell +you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you +happy,” she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which +proved that she knew nothing about love. + +Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on +the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, +and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was +not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo’s part, for how +could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes +full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or +two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his +head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed +to grow for her sake—how touching that was, to be sure! “I agree with +Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick +tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we +were so foolish as to...” Jo paused a little over the last word, but +Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression. + +“Marry—no we shouldn’t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect +saint, for you could make me anything you like.” + +“No, I can’t. I’ve tried and failed, and I won’t risk our happiness by +such a serious experiment. We don’t agree and we never shall, so we’ll +be good friends all our lives, but we won’t go and do anything rash.” + +“Yes, we will if we get the chance,” muttered Laurie rebelliously. + +“Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,” implored +Jo, almost at her wit’s end. + +“I won’t be reasonable. I don’t want to take what you call ‘a sensible +view’. It won’t help me, and it only makes it harder. I don’t believe +you’ve got any heart.” + +“I wish I hadn’t.” + +There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and thinking it a good omen, +Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he +said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously +wheedlesome before, “Don’t disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. +Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can’t get +on without you. Say you will, and let’s be happy. Do, do!” + +Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength +of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided +that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, +but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. + +“I can’t say ‘yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at all. You’ll see that I’m +right, by-and-by, and thank me for it...” she began solemnly. + +“I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning +with indignation at the very idea. + +“Yes, you will!” persisted Jo. “You’ll get over this after a while, and +find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine +mistress for your fine house. I shouldn’t. I’m homely and awkward and +odd and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel—we can’t +help it even now, you see—and I shouldn’t like elegant society and you +would, and you’d hate my scribbling, and I couldn’t get on without it, +and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn’t done it, and everything +would be horrid!” + +“Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to +this prophetic burst. + +“Nothing more, except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry. I’m +happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it +up for any mortal man.” + +“I know better!” broke in Laurie. “You think so now, but there’ll come +a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll love him +tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it’s your way, +and I shall have to stand by and see it,” and the despairing lover cast +his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, +if his face had not been so tragic. + +“Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love +him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!” cried Jo, +losing patience with poor Teddy. “I’ve done my best, but you won’t be +reasonable, and it’s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can’t +give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but +I’ll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both +of us—so now!” + +That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he +did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, +saying in a desperate sort of tone, “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.” + +“Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for his face frightened her. + +“To the devil!” was the consoling answer. + +For a minute Jo’s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank +toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a +young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort +who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a +melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and +coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time +up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and +unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip +the trouble which he carried in his heart. + +“That will do him good, and he’ll come home in such a tender, penitent +state of mind, that I shan’t dare to see him,” she said, adding, as she +went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, +and buried it under the leaves. “Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence +to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he’d love Beth, perhaps he may +in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How +can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it’s dreadful.” + +Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went +straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then +broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind +old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He +found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, +and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo +that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to +carry his boy out of harm’s way, for Young Impetuosity’s parting words +to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. + +When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather +met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very +successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the +twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the +old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to +listen to praises of the last year’s success, which to him now seemed +like love’s labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to +his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in +the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, +for he played the ‘_Sonata Pathetique_’, and played it as he never did +before. + +“That’s very fine, I dare say, but it’s sad enough to make one cry. +Give us something gayer, lad,” said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart +was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how. + +Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several +minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull +Mrs. March’s voice had not been heard calling, “Jo, dear, come in. I +want you.” + +Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he +listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and +the musician sat silent in the dark. + +“I can’t stand this,” muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his +way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, +and said, as gently as a woman, “I know, my boy, I know.” + +No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, “Who told you?” + +“Jo herself.” + +“Then there’s an end of it!” And he shook off his grandfather’s hands +with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his +man’s pride could not bear a man’s pity. + +“Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of +it,” returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. “You won’t care to +stay at home now, perhaps?” + +“I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my seeing +her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted Laurie +in a defiant tone. + +“Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but the +girl can’t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away +for a time. Where will you go?” + +“Anywhere. I don’t care what becomes of me,” and Laurie got up with a +reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather’s ear. + +“Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s sake. Why +not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?” + +“I can’t.” + +“But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got +through college.” + +“Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast through the +room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. + +“I don’t ask you to go alone. There’s someone ready and glad to go with +you, anywhere in the world.” + +“Who, Sir?” stopping to listen. + +“Myself.” + +Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying +huskily, “I’m a selfish brute, but—you know—Grandfather—” + +“Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before, +once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, +just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be +carried out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, +as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before +him. + +“Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down, without a sign of +interest in face or voice. + +“There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you +should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here +will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost +everything, I’m merely holding on until you take my place, and can be +off at any time.” + +“But you hate traveling, Sir. I can’t ask it of you at your age,” began +Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go +alone, if he went at all. + +The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to +prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him +that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling +a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave +behind him, he said stoutly, “Bless your soul, I’m not superannuated +yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won’t +suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a +chair.” + +A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, +or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, “I +don’t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you’d feel +happier than if I was left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with +you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in +my own way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit +them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you +will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your +heart’s content.” + +Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the +world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the +old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken +heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly +appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a +spiritless tone, “Just as you like, Sir. It doesn’t matter where I go +or what I do.” + +“It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I +trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.” + +“Anything you like, Sir.” + +“Good,” thought the old gentleman. “You don’t care now, but there’ll +come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I’m +much mistaken.” + +Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was +hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, +they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore +himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody, +irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress +and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided +Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a +tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a +heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of +his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to +attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a +relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very +uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the ‘poor, dear fellow was +going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy’. Of course, he +smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad +superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was +unalterable. + +When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain +inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This +gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did +for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with +a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going +very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the +afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a +minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look +round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above +him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal +eloquent and pathetic. + +“Oh, Jo, can’t you?” + +“Teddy, dear, I wish I could!” + +That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself +up, said, “It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another +word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly +head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she +had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look +behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX +BETH’S SECRET + + +When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in +Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too +gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by +absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo’s heart as she +saw her sister’s face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in +the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if +the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining +through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw +and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first +impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one +appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo +for a time forgot her fear. + +But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety +returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, +but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had +thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. +Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as +Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth +down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and +let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. + +It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people +there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. +Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care +for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and +went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about +them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the +feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long +separation was not far away. + +They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves +and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is +very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her +heart and Beth’s, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there +seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to +speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not +seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows +grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, +believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She +wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and +what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when +she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the winds +blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet. + +One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and +putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to +see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth’s cheeks. But she could +not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the +hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had +been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth +was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened +their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her +eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking +up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, +“Jo, dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve tried to tell you, but I +couldn’t.” + +There was no answer except her sister’s cheek against her own, not even +tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker +then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about +her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. + +“I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I’m used to it, it isn’t +hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don’t be troubled +about me, because it’s best, indeed it is.” + +“Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel +it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked Jo, refusing +to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no +part in Beth’s trouble. + +“Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn’t like to own it. I tried to +think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But +when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was +hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, +Jo.” + +“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t tell me, didn’t let me comfort and help you? +How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?” + +Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of +the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say +goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully. + +“Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn’t sure, no one +said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish +to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, +and you so happy with Laurie—at least I thought so then.” + +“And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I +couldn’t,” cried Jo, glad to say all the truth. + +Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, +and added softly, “Then you didn’t, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and +imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while.” + +“Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as +innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how +can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I +hope he truly will be, sometime.” + +“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they +would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I +don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.” + +“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel +more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when +it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.” + +“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too +young, Beth. I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight against +it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can’t +be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor +Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than +Beth’s. + +Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows +itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than +homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the +faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and +cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no +questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of +us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and +strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did +not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her +passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, +from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He +draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for +life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, “I try to be +willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this +great sorrow broke over them together. + +By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, “You’ll tell them this +when we go home?” + +“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo, for now it seemed +to her that Beth changed every day. + +“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often +blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for +me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has +John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and +Mother, won’t you Jo?” + +“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet. I’m going to believe that it +is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true.” said Jo, trying to +speak cheerfully. + +Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, “I don’t +know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone but you, +because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I +have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not +like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I’d do when I +grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t +seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about +at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and +the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems +as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.” + +Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the +sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew +by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it +till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little +gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach ‘peeping’ softly to +itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, +and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, +dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt +comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and +remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. + +“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than +the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, +confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and +Mother said they reminded her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures, +always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song +of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and +the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the +turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up +among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear +little girl! She’s so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and +no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I +shall see her again, but she seems so far away.” + +“She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to +see and enjoy her. I’m going to have you well and rosy by that time,” +began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change +was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought +aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. + +“Jo, dear, don’t hope any more. It won’t do any good. I’m sure of that. +We won’t be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We’ll +have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and I think the tide will go +out easily, if you help me.” + +Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, +she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. + +She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for +Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from +seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying +how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she +would be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret. Her father +stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came +in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went +to comfort her without a word. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN +NEW IMPRESSIONS + + +At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice +may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place, for the wide +walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on +one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels +and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many +nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and +on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. +Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly +Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or +saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest +celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the +Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the +company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket +barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing +ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the +diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind. + +Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with +his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. +He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the +independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs +of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in +black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange +flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy +him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the +young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at +some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade +and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and +listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach +toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as +one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came +rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in +blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his +hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. + +“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy, +dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great +scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps, +lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these +‘mad English’. + +“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, +and here I am.” + +“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?” + +“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you +were out.” + +“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we can +talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. +Flo’s saving up for tonight.” + +“What happens then, a ball?” + +“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and +they give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? Aunt +will be charmed.” + +“Thank you. Where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his +arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her +parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies’ backs afforded her +infinite satisfaction. + +“I’m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. +The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever +been there?” + +“Often, years ago, but I don’t mind having a look at it.” + +“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your +grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.” + +“Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has +settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse +him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally.” + +“That’s a sociable arrangement,” said Amy, missing something in +Laurie’s manner, though she couldn’t tell what. + +“Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each +suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he +enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see +me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he +added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the +Place Napoleon in the old city. + +“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills are +delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my +delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It’s +going to the Church of St. John.” + +While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their +canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some +brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt +a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could +not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside +her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but +now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired +and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than +a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn’t +understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her +head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the +arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church. + +“Que pensez-vous?” she said, airing her French, which had improved in +quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. + +“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is +charming,” replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an +admiring look. + +She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy +her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he +promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was +‘altogether jolly’, with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the +head. She didn’t like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded +indifferent in spite of the look. + +“If that’s the way he’s going to grow up, I wish he’d stay a boy,” she +thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying +meantime to seem quite easy and gay. + +At Avigdor’s she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins +to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road +between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June. + +“Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, +but they all say ‘stay’. So I do, for I shall never have another chance +like this,” said Amy, looking sober over one page. + +“I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is +a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and +enjoying so much, my dear.” + +He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said +that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy’s heart was lightened, +for the look, the act, the brotherly ‘my dear’, seemed to assure her +that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. +Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her +scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing +from her mouth the words, ‘Genius burns!’. + +Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket ‘to keep it from +blowing away’, and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read +him. + +“This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the +morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,” said +Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of +splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. +While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs +to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, +with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had +wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and +approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and +manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of +that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call +elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in +both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of +the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed +itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness +was unspoiled by foreign polish. + +Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, +but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a +pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, +which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her +cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure +in the pleasant scene. + +As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved +her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing +here and there, “Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the +fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa +Franca, Schubert’s Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far +out to sea which they say is Corsica?” + +“I remember. It’s not much changed,” he answered without enthusiasm. + +“What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!” said Amy, +feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also. + +“Yes,” was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the +island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting +in his sight. + +“Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what +you have been doing with yourself all this while,” said Amy, seating +herself, ready for a good talk. + +But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her +questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the +Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove +home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left +them, promising to return in the evening. + +It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. +Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had +seen her old friend in a new light, not as ‘our boy’, but as a handsome +and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to +find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of +them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty +woman. + +Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them +on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple +dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh +flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were +both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist +sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique +coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear +heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon +such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep +our hearts merry with their artless vanities. + +“I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,” said +Amy to herself, as she put on Flo’s old white silk ball dress, and +covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white +shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair +she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and +curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. + +“It’s not the fashion, but it’s becoming, and I can’t afford to make a +fright of myself,” she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or +braid, as the latest style commanded. + +Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped +her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white +shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she +surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and +chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. + +“My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the +real lace on Aunt’s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only +had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,” she said, +surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand. + +In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as +she glided away. She seldom ran—it did not suit her style, she thought, +for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the +sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while +waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, +which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it, +and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the +girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened +that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so +quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, +with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the +slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a +well-placed statue. + +“Good evening, Diana!” said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she +liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. + +“Good evening, Apollo!” she answered, smiling back at him, for he too +looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on +the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain +Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart. + +“Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you +didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay’,” said Laurie, handing her +a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily +passed it in Cardiglia’s window. + +“How kind you are!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If I’d known you were +coming I’d have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty +as this, I’m afraid.” + +“Thank you. It isn’t what it should be, but you have improved it,” he +added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. + +“Please don’t.” + +“I thought you liked that sort of thing.” + +“Not from you, it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness +better.” + +“I’m glad of it,” he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her +gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to +do when they went to parties together at home. + +The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was +such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans +had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no +prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their +Christmas ball. + +A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk +with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother in black velvet with +a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted +himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, ‘a fascinating dear’, and a +German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely +about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild’s private +secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the +world, as if his master’s name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout +Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, +and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little +family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced +American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few +plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of +traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas +of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they +danced with their daughters. + +Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she ‘took the +stage’ that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well, +she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a +ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when +young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to +rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis +girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim +papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her +friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it +permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who +her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the +band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap +the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know +it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than +described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, “Do you care to +dance?” + +“One usually does at a ball.” + +Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as +fast as possible. + +“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?” + +“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he +will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the +name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be +trifled with. + +“Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support... + +A daughter of the gods, +Devinely tall, and most divinely fair,” + + +was all the satisfaction she got, however. + +The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy +was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the +while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned +her to the ‘nice little boy’, and went to do his duty to Flo, without +securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of +forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself +till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She +showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled +instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka +redowa. But his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and when she +galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with +an actual expression of relief. + +That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long +while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between +the dances for a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good +effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed +unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie’s eyes followed her with +pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit +and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very +naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before +the evening was half over, had decided that ‘little Amy was going to +make a very charming woman’. + +It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took +possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, +hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and +banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who +couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark +with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. +The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a +dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. +The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily +through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he +committed. But the Emperor’s friend covered himself with glory, for he +danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu +pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that +stout man was charming to behold, for though he ‘carried weight’, he +danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face +glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps +actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the +drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French +Pickwick without glasses. + +Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more +graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time +to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as +indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished +her, with assurances that he was ‘desolated to leave so early’, she was +ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his +punishment. + +It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections +find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young +blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the +enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up +look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring +her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “Ah, I +thought that would do him good!” + +“You look like Balzac’s ‘_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_’,” he said, as he +fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other. + +“My rouge won’t come off.” and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and +showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh +outright. + +“What do you call this stuff?” he asked, touching a fold of her dress +that had blown over his knee. + +“Illusion.” + +“Good name for it. It’s very pretty—new thing, isn’t it?” + +“It’s as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you +never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!” + +“I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you +see.” + +“None of that, it is forbidden. I’d rather take coffee than compliments +just now. No, don’t lounge, it makes me nervous.” + +Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd +sort of pleasure in having ‘little Amy’ order him about, for she had +lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, +as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any +signs of subjection. + +“Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked with a quizzical +look. + +“As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would you kindly +explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but +wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable. + +“Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession, +the—the—illusion—you know”, laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping +himself out of his quandary with the new word. + +Amy was gratified, but of course didn’t show it, and demurely answered, +“Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self. I study as well as +play, and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her dress—“why, +tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making +the most of my poor little things.” + +Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good +taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both +admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of +opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. +Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up +her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of +the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought +this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions +which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT +ON THE SHELF + + +In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, +when ‘Vive la liberte!’ becomes their motto. In America, as everyone +knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy +their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually +abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion +almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. +Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as +soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, +as did a very pretty woman the other day, “I’m as handsome as ever, but +no one takes any notice of me because I’m married.” + +Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience +this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little +world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired +and beloved than ever. + +As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very +strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter +exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded +over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the +tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the +kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the +wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored +his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, +supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored. +But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked +worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the +house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life ‘aisy’, kept +him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered +by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at +night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a “Hush! They +are just asleep after worrying all day.” If he proposed a little +amusement at home, “No, it would disturb the babies.” If he hinted at a +lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a +decided—“Leave my children for pleasure, never!” His sleep was broken +by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to +and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the +frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, +if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his +paper of an evening, Demi’s colic got into the shipping list and +Daisy’s fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only +interested in domestic news. + +The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of +his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual ‘hushing’ made +him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred +precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and +when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles +do—tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone +to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over +for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and +his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott +was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she +performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright +and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay +gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style. + +John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so +lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and +enjoyed his neighbor’s society. + +Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a +relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in +the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But +by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep +at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, +and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite +in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the +fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because +he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely +forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was +nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable +frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when +domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of +cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the +teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle. + +“Yes,” she would say, looking in the glass, “I’m getting old and ugly. +John doesn’t find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded +wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. +Well, the babies love me, they don’t care if I am thin and pale and +haven’t time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John +will see what I’ve gladly sacrificed for them, won’t he, my precious?” + +To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a +crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which +soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as +politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss +interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. +Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one +day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg’s drooping +spirits had not escaped her observation. + +“I wouldn’t tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need +advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed,” +replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy’s bib with an injured +air. + +“Goes on how, my dear?” asked her mother anxiously. + +“He’s away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is +continually going over to the Scotts’. It isn’t fair that I should have +the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even +the best of them.” + +“So are women. Don’t blame John till you see where you are wrong +yourself.” + +“But it can’t be right for him to neglect me.” + +“Don’t you neglect him?” + +“Why, Mother, I thought you’d take my part!” + +“So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, +Meg.” + +“I don’t see how.” + +“Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you +made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only +leisure time?” + +“No, but I can’t do it now, with two babies to tend.” + +“I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite +freely, and will you remember that it’s Mother who blames as well as +Mother who sympathizes?” + +“Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel +as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me +for everything.” + +Meg drew her low chair beside her mother’s, and with a little +interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly +together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than +ever. + +“You have only made the mistake that most young wives make—forgotten +your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very +natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be +remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw +you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and +John had nothing to do but support them. I’ve seen it for some weeks, +but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time.” + +“I’m afraid it won’t. If I ask him to stay, he’ll think I’m jealous, +and I wouldn’t insult him by such an idea. He doesn’t see that I want +him, and I don’t know how to tell him without words.” + +“Make it so pleasant he won’t want to go away. My dear, he’s longing +for his little home, but it isn’t home without you, and you are always +in the nursery.” + +“Oughtn’t I to be there?” + +“Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you +are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well +as to the babies. Don’t neglect husband for children, don’t shut him +out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there +as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a +part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be +better for you all.” + +“You really think so, Mother?” + +“I know it, Meg, for I’ve tried it, and I seldom give advice unless +I’ve proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on +just as you are, feeling as if I didn’t do my duty unless I devoted +myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had +refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I +struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I +nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about +you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly +managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, +and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the +secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from +the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let +domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part +alone in many things, but at home we work together, always.” + +“It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and +children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I’ll do anything you +say.” + +“You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I’d let +John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs +training, and it’s none too soon to begin. Then I’d do what I have +often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, +and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more +housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John +would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, +for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal +there is no fair weather. Then I’d try to take an interest in whatever +John likes—talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help +each other in that way. Don’t shut yourself up in a bandbox because you +are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to +take your part in the world’s work, for it all affects you and yours.” + +“John is so sensible, I’m afraid he will think I’m stupid if I ask +questions about politics and things.” + +“I don’t believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom +could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn’t +find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott’s suppers.” + +“I will. Poor John! I’m afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I +thought I was right, and he never said anything.” + +“He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy. +This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow +apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the +first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. +And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years +of the little lives given to them to train. Don’t let John be a +stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and +happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and +through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. +Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother’s preachment, act upon it if it +seems good, and God bless you all.” + +Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the +first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course +the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they +found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. +Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily +subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt +at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a +trifle of his sire’s firmness of character, we won’t call it obstinacy, +and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the +king’s horses and all the king’s men could not change that pertinacious +little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer +his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn +obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to +‘wrastle’ with ‘Parpar’, he always got the worst of it, yet like the +Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the +father whose grave “No, no,” was more impressive than all Mamma’s love +pats. + +A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social +evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in +order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, +that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately +Demi’s most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that +night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told +stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all +in vain, the big eyes wouldn’t shut, and long after Daisy had gone to +byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty +Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake +expression of countenance. + +“Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives +poor Papa his tea?” asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the +well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room. + +“Me has tea!” said Demi, preparing to join in the revel. + +“No, but I’ll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you’ll go +bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?” + +“Iss!” and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the +desired day. + +Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran +down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow +in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and +said with pleased surprise, “Why, little mother, how gay we are +tonight. Do you expect company?” + +“Only you, dear.” + +“Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?” + +“No, I’m tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always +make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why +shouldn’t I when I have the time?” + +“I do it out of respect for you, my dear,” said old-fashioned John. + +“Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke,” laughed Meg, looking young and pretty +again, as she nodded to him over the teapot. + +“Well, it’s altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes +right. I drink your health, dear.” and John sipped his tea with an air +of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as +he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little +voice was heard, saying impatiently... + +“Opy doy. Me’s tummin!” + +“It’s that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he +is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,” +said Meg, answering the call. + +“Mornin’ now,” announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his +long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing +gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the ‘cakies’ with loving +glances. + +“No, it isn’t morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor +Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it.” + +“Me loves Parpar,” said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal +knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to +Meg... + +“If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do +it, or he will never learn to mind you.” + +“Yes, of course. Come, Demi,” and Meg led her son away, feeling a +strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, +laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as +soon as they reached the nursery. + +Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him +a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more +promenades till morning. + +“Iss!” said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and +regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. + +Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when +the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies +by boldly demanding, “More sudar, Marmar.” + +“Now this won’t do,” said John, hardening his heart against the +engaging little sinner. “We shall never know any peace till that child +learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long +enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put +him in his bed and leave him, Meg.” + +“He won’t stay there, he never does unless I sit by him.” + +“I’ll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma +bids you.” + +“S’ant!” replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted +‘cakie’, and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity. + +“You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don’t go +yourself.” + +“Go ’way, me don’t love Parpar.” and Demi retired to his mother’s +skirts for protection. + +But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to +the enemy, with a “Be gentle with him, John,” which struck the culprit +with dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at +hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a +strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his +wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the +way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out +on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up +by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively +performance was kept up till the young man’s strength gave out, when he +devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise +usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is +popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no +story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire +enlivened the ‘big dark’ which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than +fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally +for ‘Marmar’, as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his +tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail +which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg’s heart, and she ran up +to say beseechingly... + +“Let me stay with him, he’ll be good now, John.” + +“No, my dear. I’ve told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he +must, if I stay here all night.” + +“But he’ll cry himself sick,” pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for +deserting her boy. + +“No, he won’t, he’s so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter +is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don’t +interfere, I’ll manage him.” + +“He’s my child, and I can’t have his spirit broken by harshness.” + +“He’s my child, and I won’t have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go +down, my dear, and leave the boy to me.” + +When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never +regretted her docility. + +“Please let me kiss him once, John?” + +“Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for +she is very tired with taking care of you all day.” + +Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it +was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom +of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind. + +“Poor little man, he’s worn out with sleep and crying. I’ll cover him +up, and then go and set Meg’s heart at rest,” thought John, creeping to +the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep. + +But he wasn’t, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi’s eyes +opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying +with a penitent hiccough, “Me’s dood, now.” + +Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which +followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible +accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay +fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued +bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father’s arm and holding his +father’s finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, +and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited +with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and +while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son +than with his whole day’s work. + +As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to +herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, “I +never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does +know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting +too much for me.” + +When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful +wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a +bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the +election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a +revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, +knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn’t +keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon +appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then +explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply +interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from +wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In +her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as +mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling +each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and +when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought +diplomatic ambiguity, “Well, I really don’t see what we are coming to.” + +John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty +little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it +with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken. + +“She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I’ll try and like +millinery for hers, that’s only fair,” thought John the Just, adding +aloud, “That’s very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?” + +“My dear man, it’s a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater +bonnet.” + +“I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of +the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?” + +“These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so,” +and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an +air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible. + +“It’s a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks +young and happy again,” and John kissed the smiling face, to the great +detriment of the rosebud under the chin. + +“I’m glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new +concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will +you, please?” + +“Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You +have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall +enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?” + +“Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous +and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and +less care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I’m to see to +things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just +to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before +my time. It’s only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your +sake as much as for mine, because I’ve neglected you shamefully lately, +and I’m going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don’t +object, I hope?” + +Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little +bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is +that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which +gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all +Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of +labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for +accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, +while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of +wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential +conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and +John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts +came to the Brookes’ now, and everyone found the little house a +cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even +Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. “It is always so quiet and pleasant +here, it does me good, Meg,” she used to say, looking about her with +wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it +in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no +riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, +where there was no place for her. + +This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had +found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to +use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual +helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. +This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent +to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding +loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, +undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through +fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true +sense of the good old Saxon word, the ‘house-band’, and learning, as +Meg learned, that a woman’s happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor +the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother. + + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE +LAZY LAURENCE + + +Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He +was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy’s familiar presence seemed +to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a +part. He rather missed the ‘petting’ he used to receive, and enjoyed a +taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from +strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls +at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad +to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the +representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she +would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other’s society and +were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice +no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while +apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were +half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each +other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in +hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to +please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he +gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly +women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of +any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, +trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word +because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, +and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have +taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the +opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue +eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful +surprise. + +“All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at +home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to +sketch, will you come?” said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day +when he lounged in as usual, about noon. + +“Well, yes, but isn’t it rather warm for such a long walk?” he answered +slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without. + +“I’m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so +you’ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves +nice,” returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, +which were a weak point with Laurie. + +“Then I’ll go with pleasure.” and he put out his hand for her +sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp... + +“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s no exertion to me, but you don’t look +equal to it.” + +Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran +downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins +himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and +fall asleep on his perch. + +The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was +too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring +air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the +most amicable manner. + +It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque +scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, +whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a +bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket +over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among +the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with +panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a +capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with +a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the +quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on +the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky +foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones +fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the +Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky. + +Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer +roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust +themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to +passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and +feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where +seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool +grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every +fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to +smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped +the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of +the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, +and the white-walled city on its shore. + +“This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn’t it? Did you ever see such +roses?” asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a +luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by. + +“No, nor felt such thorns,” returned Laurie, with his thumb in his +mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that +grew just beyond his reach. + +“Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns,” said Amy, +gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall +behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he +stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in +the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and +he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, +when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for +romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny +red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones +like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were +the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, +and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but +the next instant his American common sense got the better of +sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard +since he came. + +“It’s good advice, you’d better take it and save your fingers,” she +said, thinking her speech amused him. + +“Thank you, I will,” he answered in jest, and a few months later he did +it in earnest. + +“Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?” she asked presently, +as she settled herself on a rustic seat. + +“Very soon.” + +“You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks.” + +“I dare say, short answers save trouble.” + +“He expects you, and you really ought to go.” + +“Hospitable creature! I know it.” + +“Then why don’t you do it?” + +“Natural depravity, I suppose.” + +“Natural indolence, you mean. It’s really dreadful!” and Amy looked +severe. + +“Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I +might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it +better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently,” and Laurie +composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade. + +Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of +resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture ‘that boy’ and in +a minute she began again. + +“What are you doing just now?” + +“Watching lizards.” + +“No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?” + +“Smoke a cigarette, if you’ll allow me.” + +“How provoking you are! I don’t approve of cigars and I will only allow +it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a +figure.” + +“With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or +three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a +recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it ‘Dolce far +niente’.” + +“Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard,” +said Amy in her most energetic tone. + +“What delightful enthusiasm!” and he leaned against a tall urn with an +air of entire satisfaction. + +“What would Jo say if she saw you now?” asked Amy impatiently, hoping +to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister’s +name. + +“As usual, ‘Go away, Teddy. I’m busy!’” He laughed as he spoke, but the +laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the +utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed +yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them +before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on +Laurie’s face—a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and +regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless +expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic +pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in +the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for +he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie. + +“You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb,” she +said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark +stone. + +“Wish I was!” + +“That’s a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so +changed, I sometimes think—” there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, +half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech. + +Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated +to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used +to say it to her mother, “It’s all right, ma’am.” + +That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry +her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the +cordial tone in which she said... + +“I’m glad of that! I didn’t think you’d been a very bad boy, but I +fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost +your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into +some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of +a foreign tour. Don’t stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the +grass here and ‘let us be friendly’, as Jo used to say when we got in +the sofa corner and told secrets.” + +Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse +himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy’s hat, that lay +there. + +“I’m all ready for the secrets.” and he glanced up with a decided +expression of interest in his eyes. + +“I’ve none to tell. You may begin.” + +“Haven’t one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you’d had some +news from home..” + +“You have heard all that has come lately. Don’t you hear often? I +fancied Jo would send you volumes.” + +“She’s very busy. I’m roving about so, it’s impossible to be regular, +you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?” he +asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he +had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it. + +“Never,” she answered, with a despondent but decided air. “Rome took +all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt +too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair.” + +“Why should you, with so much energy and talent?” + +“That’s just why, because talent isn’t genius, and no amount of energy +can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won’t be a +common-place dauber, so I don’t intend to try any more.” + +“And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?” + +“Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get +the chance.” + +It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity +becomes young people, and Amy’s ambition had a good foundation. Laurie +smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose +when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting. + +“Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy.” + +Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her +downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, “Now I’m going +to play brother, and ask questions. May I?” + +“I don’t promise to answer.” + +“Your face will, if your tongue won’t. You aren’t woman of the world +enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred +and you last year, and it’s my private opinion that if he had not been +called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come +of it, hey?” + +“That’s not for me to say,” was Amy’s grim reply, but her lips would +smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed +that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge. + +“You are not engaged, I hope?” and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly +and grave all of a sudden. + +“No.” + +“But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees, +won’t you?” + +“Very likely.” + +“Then you are fond of old Fred?” + +“I could be, if I tried.” + +“But you don’t intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, +what unearthly prudence! He’s a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I +fancied you’d like.” + +“He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,” began Amy, +trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of +herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions. + +“I understand. Queens of society can’t get on without money, so you +mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and +proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of +your mother’s girls.” + +“True, nevertheless.” + +A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered +contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this +instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of +disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as +well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her +resolve to deliver her lecture without delay. + +“I wish you’d do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,” she said +sharply. + +“Do it for me, there’s a dear girl.” + +“I could, if I tried.” and she looked as if she would like doing it in +the most summary style. + +“Try, then. I give you leave,” returned Laurie, who enjoyed having +someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime. + +“You’d be angry in five minutes.” + +“I’m never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are +as cool and soft as snow.” + +“You don’t know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if +applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good +stirring up would prove it.” + +“Stir away, it won’t hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said +when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a +carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees +with you.” + +Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the +apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and +began. + +“Flo and I have got a new name for you. It’s Lazy Laurence. How do you +like it?” + +She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his +head, with an imperturbable, “That’s not bad. Thank you, ladies.” + +“Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?” + +“Pining to be told.” + +“Well, I despise you.” + +If she had even said ‘I hate you’ in a petulant or coquettish tone, he +would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, +accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly... + +“Why, if you please?” + +“Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are +faulty, lazy, and miserable.” + +“Strong language, mademoiselle.” + +“If you like it, I’ll go on.” + +“Pray do, it’s quite interesting.” + +“I thought you’d find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about +themselves.” + +“Am I selfish?” the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of +surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity. + +“Yes, very selfish,” continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as +effective just then as an angry one. “I’ll show you how, for I’ve +studied you while we were frolicking, and I’m not at all satisfied with +you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but +waste time and money and disappoint your friends.” + +“Isn’t a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?” + +“You don’t look as if you’d had much. At any rate, you are none the +better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you +had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don’t think you half so +nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you +like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to +be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and +respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and +beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it’s the truth, so I can’t +help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you +can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you +ought to be, you are only...” there she stopped, with a look that had +both pain and pity in it. + +“Saint Laurence on a gridiron,” added Laurie, blandly finishing the +sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a +wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured +expression replaced the former indifference. + +“I supposed you’d take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we +can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you +good, you laugh at us and won’t listen, which proves how much your +flattery is worth.” Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the +exasperating martyr at her feet. + +In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, +and Laurie’s voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, “I +will be good, oh, I will be good!” + +But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the +outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, “Aren’t you ashamed of a +hand like that? It’s as soft and white as a woman’s, and looks as if it +never did anything but wear Jouvin’s best gloves and pick flowers for +ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I’m glad to see there are +no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave +you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!” + +“So do I!” + +The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough +in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with +a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his +face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his +chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, +and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to +hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a +minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in +Amy’s mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She +remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the +shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the +wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome +hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy +had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the +alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when +she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and +kind when she chose to make it so. + +“I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren’t +the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you’d be very angry with me. +But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn’t bear to think they +should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps +they would understand the change better than I do.” + +“I think they would,” came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as +touching as a broken one. + +“They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, +when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did +like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!” said artful Amy, wishing to +be sure of her facts this time. + +“Hang Miss Randal!” and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look +that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady. + +“I beg pardon, I thought...” and there she paused diplomatically. + +“No, you didn’t, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone but +Jo,” Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face +away as he spoke. + +“I did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came +away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn’t be kind to you? Why, I +was sure she loved you dearly.” + +“She was kind, but not in the right way, and it’s lucky for her she +didn’t love me, if I’m the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It’s +her fault though, and you may tell her so.” + +The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled +Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply. + +“I was wrong, I didn’t know. I’m very sorry I was so cross, but I can’t +help wishing you’d bear it better, Teddy, dear.” + +“Don’t, that’s her name for me!” and Laurie put up his hand with a +quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo’s half-kind, +half-reproachful tone. “Wait till you’ve tried it yourself,” he added +in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful. + +“I’d take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn’t be loved,” said +Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it. + +Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well, +making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live +it down alone. Amy’s lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the +first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first +failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if +suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to +sleep again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly, “Do you think Jo +would despise me as you do?” + +“Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don’t you do +something splendid, and make her love you?” + +“I did my best, but it was no use.” + +“Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have +done, for your grandfather’s sake. It would have been shameful to fail +after spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you +could do well.” + +“I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn’t love me,” began Laurie, +leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude. + +“No, you didn’t, and you’ll say so in the end, for it did you good, and +proved that you could do something if you tried. If you’d only set +about another task of some sort, you’d soon be your hearty, happy self +again, and forget your trouble.” + +“That’s impossible.” + +“Try it and see. You needn’t shrug your shoulders, and think, ‘Much she +knows about such things’. I don’t pretend to be wise, but I am +observing, and I see a great deal more than you’d imagine. I’m +interested in other people’s experiences and inconsistencies, and +though I can’t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit. +Love Jo all your days, if you choose, but don’t let it spoil you, for +it’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have the +one you want. There, I won’t lecture any more, for I know you’ll wake +up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl.” + +Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring +on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had +been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee, +merely saying, “How do you like that?” + +He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it +was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless +face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the +little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer’s head. + +“How well you draw!” he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at +her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, “Yes, that’s me.” + +“As you are. This is as you were.” and Amy laid another sketch beside +the one he held. + +It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it +which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that +a sudden change swept over the young man’s face as he looked. Only a +rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every +line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was +full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood +arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot +impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for +the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider’s +breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly +arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that +contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the ‘_Dolce far Niente_’ +sketch. Laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to the other, +Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and +accepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and +without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way... + +“Don’t you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all +looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, +and I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my +portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you.” + +“Much obliged. You’ve improved immensely since then, and I congratulate +you. May I venture to suggest in ‘a honeymoon paradise’ that five +o’clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?” + +Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow +and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures +should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent +air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more +effacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his +manner, and said to herself... + +“Now, I’ve offended him. Well, if it does him good, I’m glad, if it +makes him hate me, I’m sorry, but it’s true, and I can’t take back a +word of it.” + +They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little Baptiste, up +behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming +spirits. But both felt ill at ease. The friendly frankness was +disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their +apparent gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each. + +“Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?” asked Amy, as they parted +at her aunt’s door. + +“Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle,” and +Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which +became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say +quickly and warmly... + +“No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I’d +rather have a hearty English handshake than all the sentimental +salutations in France.” + +“Goodbye, dear,” and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked, +Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness. + +Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made +her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end. + +My Dear Mentor, Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within +yourself, for ‘Lazy Laurence’ has gone to his grandpa, like the best of +boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful +honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell +him so, with my congratulations. + + +Yours gratefully, Telemachus + + +“Good boy! I’m glad he’s gone,” said Amy, with an approving smile. The +next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding, +with an involuntary sigh, “Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him.” + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY +THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW + + +When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, +and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased +affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of +trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward +making that last year a happy one. + +The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was +gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, +the little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books +found their way there, Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s finest +sketches, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, +to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, +that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with +the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of +concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears +as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful +letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands +that know no winter. + +Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, +tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, +unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to +make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers +were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for +the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens +from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small +mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through +forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner +of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of +learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to +regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above +there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and +needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little +faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the +droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude. + +The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look +round, and say “How beautiful this is!” as they all sat together in her +sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and +sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from +the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as +applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a +paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, +trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make +resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls +of those who listened, for the father’s heart was in the minister’s +religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence +to the words he spoke or read. + +It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as +preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the +needle was ‘so heavy’, and put it down forever. Talking wearied her, +faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil +spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble +flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching +hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced +to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the +bitter cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel that there was no help. A +sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with +death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion +over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck +of her frail body, Beth’s soul grew strong, and though she said little, +those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim +called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, +trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed +the river. + +Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said “I feel stronger when +you are here.” She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew +the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom +asked for anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’. All day she +haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being +chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and +helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it +needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could +not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can +forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the +hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts +undoubtingly. + +Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, +heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her +lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the +transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too +deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was +trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the +life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music +she loved so well. + +Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest +hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with +eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest +sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister’s life—uneventful, +unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which ‘smell sweet, and +blossom in the dust’, the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on +earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible +to all. + +One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find +something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as +hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, +Pilgrims’s Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo’s +hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made +her sure that tears had fallen on it. + +“Poor Jo! She’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask leave. She +shows me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll mind if I look at +this”, thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, +with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell +apart. + +MY BETH + + +Sitting patient in the shadow +Till the blessed light shall come, +A serene and saintly presence +Sanctifies our troubled home. +Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows +Break like ripples on the strand +Of the deep and solemn river +Where her willing feet now stand. + + +O my sister, passing from me, +Out of human care and strife, +Leave me, as a gift, those virtues +Which have beautified your life. +Dear, bequeath me that great patience +Which has power to sustain +A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit +In its prison-house of pain. + + +Give me, for I need it sorely, +Of that courage, wise and sweet, +Which has made the path of duty +Green beneath your willing feet. +Give me that unselfish nature, +That with charity divine +Can pardon wrong for love’s dear sake— +Meek heart, forgive me mine! + + +Thus our parting daily loseth +Something of its bitter pain, +And while learning this hard lesson, +My great loss becomes my gain. +For the touch of grief will render +My wild nature more serene, +Give to life new aspirations, +A new trust in the unseen. + + +Henceforth, safe across the river, +I shall see forever more +A beloved, household spirit +Waiting for me on the shore. +Hope and faith, born of my sorrow, +Guardian angels shall become, +And the sister gone before me +By their hands shall lead me home. + + +Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought +a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had +been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that +her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the +despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, +the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and +crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept. + +“Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew +you wouldn’t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?” she asked, with +wistful, humble earnestness. + +“_Oh_, Beth, so much, so much!” and Jo’s head went down upon the pillow +beside her sister’s. + +“Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so good as you +make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it’s too late to +begin even to do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone loves +me so much, and feels as if I’d helped them.” + +“More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let +you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, that you’ll be +more to me than ever, and death can’t part us, though it seems to.” + +“I know it cannot, and I don’t fear it any longer, for I’m sure I shall +be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take +my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I’m gone. +They will turn to you, don’t fail them, and if it’s hard to work alone, +remember that I don’t forget you, and that you’ll be happier in doing +that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is +the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the +end so easy.” + +“I’ll try, Beth.” and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, +pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of +other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the +immortality of love. + +So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth +greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in +time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, +clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother +guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up +to God. + +Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, +or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many +parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply +as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the ‘tide went out easily’, and in the +dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first +breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving +look, one little sigh. + +With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her +ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with +grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic +patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent +joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom +full of dread. + +When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out, +Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang +blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly +at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction +over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace +that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked +God that Beth was well at last. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-ONE +LEARNING TO FORGET + + +Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it +till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, +the lords of creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded +themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon +it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of +it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back +to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that +the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him +wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the +young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have +dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and +whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by +repeating the words that had made the deepest impression—“I despise +you.” “Go and do something splendid that will make her love you.” + +Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought +himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a +man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries +till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were +quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful +mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo +wouldn’t love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by +doing something which should prove that a girl’s ‘No’ had not spoiled +his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy’s advice was +quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted +affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was +ready to ‘hide his stricken heart, and still toil on’. + +As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie +resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem +which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer. +Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless +and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical +friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish +himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, +or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that +the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his +mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for +often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself +humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at +Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to +tragic composition for the time being. + +Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, +but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his +heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender +recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned +traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would +only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in +the most unsentimental aspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a +bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold +water over his passion a la Gummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled +the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn’t be put +into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a “Bless +that girl, what a torment she is!” and a clutch at his hair, as became +a distracted composer. + +When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to +immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging +readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, +was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his +mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and +blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he +took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, +for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted +her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal +woman. + +Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but +gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he +sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new +ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled +state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and +was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. +“It’s genius simmering, perhaps. I’ll let it simmer, and see what comes +of it,” he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn’t +genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to +some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory +life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and +body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved +music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart’s grand operas, +splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, +played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of +Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then +suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last +fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself... + +“She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it so. That +music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I +won’t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?” + +That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had +to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible +opportunity for ‘going to the devil’, as he once forcibly expressed it, +for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially +fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow +had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood +them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith +and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire +to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, +and say “All’s well,” kept him safe and steady. + +Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, “I don’t believe it, boys +will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not +expect miracles.” I dare say you don’t, Mrs. Grundy, but it’s true +nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion +that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by +refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the +better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But +mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, +and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and +showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues +which make men manliest in good women’s eyes. If it is a feminine +delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the +beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would +embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who +still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to +own it. + +Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb +all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it +grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry +with himself, and couldn’t understand it, but these hearts of ours are +curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in +spite of us. Laurie’s heart wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in +healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to +forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this +turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with +himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture +of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a +tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost +love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a +comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into +a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish +passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very +tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass +away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken +to the end. + +As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one of his reveries, +he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before +him... + +“Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have one sister he took +the other, and was happy.” + +Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next +instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, “No, I won’t! I +haven’t forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again, and if that fails, why +then...” + +Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to +Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was +the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she—and +let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did +nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of +impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one +point, for Jo decidedly couldn’t and wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in +Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him +to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his +heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to +tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and +there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be +time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not +let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious. + +“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for +her, I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had +been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks +before. + +But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his +best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. +Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and +business documents of various kinds were several of Jo’s letters, and +in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up +with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead +roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, +Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed, folded, and put them +neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring +thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the +letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint +Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not +overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the +rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies. + +The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy +was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding +manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and +fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold +his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping +somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, +but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just +then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her +rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’. + +Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once +decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,” +kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, +and she found that something more than money and position was needed to +satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes +and fears. The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I +fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them, +kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in +look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.” It troubled her to +remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so +unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly +creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as +she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn’t hate her for +the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was +kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters +were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did +come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the +poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in +being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love +him. It couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to +have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other +girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a +brother. + +If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they +would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never +lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested +in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent +him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, +and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few +brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in +their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when +short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that +Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did +grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for +society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much +to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while +she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or +absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight +carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over +his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a +ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur +according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether +satisfactory. + +Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding +denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what +she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to +Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he +said to himself, with a venerable air... + +“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve been +through it all, and I can sympathize.” + +With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his +duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter +luxuriously. + +While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But +the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when +the next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news +met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and +they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the +Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the +family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was +too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence +soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at +home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for +Laurie to come and comfort her. + +He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, +but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment +he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow +pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy +and sorrow, hope and suspense. + +He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he +hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en +pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to +take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be +in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of +sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could +not wait even a ‘flash of time’, and in the middle of the speech +departed to find mademoiselle himself. + +A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts +rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the +tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, +low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or +console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here +that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy +eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did +not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the +archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a +minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen +before, the tender side of Amy’s character. Everything about her mutely +suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black +ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her +face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to +Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only +ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, +they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for +dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of +unmistakable love and longing... + +“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!” + +I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood +together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down +protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and +sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only +woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did +not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, +were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence. + +In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, +Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry +well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As +he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the +recollection of her impulsive greeting. + +“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to +see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was +beginning to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to speak +quite naturally. + +“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you +for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and...” He could +not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did +not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his +shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took +her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better +than words. + +“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said softly. “Beth is +well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I dread the going +home, much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about it now, for +it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go +right back, need you?” + +“Not if you want me, dear.” + +“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of +the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little +while.” + +Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that +Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she +wanted—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she +needed. + +“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick! I’m +going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and walk +about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he said, +in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied +on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the +sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon +his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, +a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully +for her alone. + +The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed +expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but +the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of +their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked +and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which +gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell +warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and +sorrow behind her in the chateau garden. + +The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated +with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it all—the +child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never +thought of such a thing!” + +With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed +no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged +Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much +solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal +occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it +with more than her usual success. + +At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was +never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the +most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed +his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was +owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a +like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits. + +The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked +wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get +clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills. +The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and +moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring +ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away +the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly +down upon them saying, “Little children, love one another.” + +In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that +Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little +while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he +had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for +the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the +same as Jo’s self, and the conviction that it would have been +impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His +first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon +it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion +blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one +of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be +grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should +be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, +hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without +words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so +naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would +be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been +crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so +Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance +the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and +sweetest part of his new romance. + +He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the +chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous +manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was +settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been +floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny +Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the +Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne +upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake +below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged +gulls. + +They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of +Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. +Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each +privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had +been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell +between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars +with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for +the sake of saying something... + +“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, +for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.” + +“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room +enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t +trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement. + +Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered +third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She +rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both +hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went +smoothly through the water. + +“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to +silence just then. + +“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, +Amy?” very tenderly. + +“Yes, Laurie,” very low. + +Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little +tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected +in the lake. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-TWO +ALL ALONE + + +It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in +another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when +the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved +presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo +found her promise very hard to keep. How could she ‘comfort Father and +Mother’ when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her +sister, how could she ‘make the house cheerful’ when all its light and +warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old +home for the new, and where in all the world could she ‘find some +useful, happy work to do’, that would take the place of the loving +service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless +way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it +seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made +heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some +people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not +fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, +only disappointment, trouble and hard work. + +Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came +over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, +devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that +never seemed to grow any easier. “I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a +life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something +desperate if somebody doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself, +when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable +state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the +inevitable. + +But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good +angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple +spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night, +thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed +made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth, +come back! Come back!” she did not stretch out her yearning arms in +vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her +sister’s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with +words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears +that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken +whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went +hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to +heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, +which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden +seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more +endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms. + +When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found +help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray +head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly, +“Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, +for I’m all wrong.” + +“My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,” he answered, with a falter +in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and +did not fear to ask for it. + +Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her +troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that +discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all +the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire +confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation +in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not +only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to +serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, +thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called ‘the church of +one member’, and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered +cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had +taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach +another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its +beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power. + +Other helps had Jo—humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not +be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to +see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as +they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of +her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the +old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself +humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth’s orderly ways, and +giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and +cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she +didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the +hand... + +“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss that dear +lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and the Lord +will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.” + +As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister +Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly +impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and +children, and how much they were all doing for each other. + +“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should +blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always +_‘perwisin’_ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in +the topsy-turvy nursery. + +“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your +nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but +silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love +will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will +fall off.” + +“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to bring +them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by them,” +returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would +ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob. + +Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but +she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her +power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of +Meg’s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. +Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo’s was nearly ready for +the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy’s +impatient shake, but a man’s hand reached up to pick it gently from the +burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she +would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately +she wasn’t thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she +dropped. + +Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at +this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the +world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in +her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn’t a heroine, she was only a +struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out +her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood +suggested. It’s highly virtuous to say we’ll be good, but we can’t do +it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all +together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo +had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if +she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She +had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard, +and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to +devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to +them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to increase +the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, +ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and +cheerfully live for others? + +Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she +had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she +do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she +found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she +took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the +refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed +the hill called Difficulty. + +“Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,” said her +mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo. + +“I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things.” + +“We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. +Try it, dear. I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.” + +“Don’t believe I can.” But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul +her half-finished manuscripts. + +An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching +away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which +caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success +of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got +into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it, +for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, +much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her +utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters +from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance +of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as +friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo +was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all +at once. + +“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like +that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered. + +“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret. Humor and pathos make it +alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no +thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter. +You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as +happy as we are in your success.” + +“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine. I +owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her +father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world. + +So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent +them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very +charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly +welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like +dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes. + +When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that +Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon +set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very +quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for ‘the children’ before she +read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each +glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and +satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make. + +“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely written +sheets and looked at one another. + +“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused +Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the +‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in her +letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.” + +“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to +me.” + +“Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have +girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest +you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled.” + +“I’m not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I’m sober and +sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.” + +“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied +it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else.” + +“Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, +after I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?” + +“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he +came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another +answer. Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very lonely, +and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my +heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he +tried now.” + +“No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I’m glad Amy has learned to +love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if +Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him +any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away.” + +“I’m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are +plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, +sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all +comes to give you your reward.” + +“Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind whispering +to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds. It’s very curious, but the +more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the +more I seem to want. I’d no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is +so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented +with my family. I don’t understand it.” + +“I do,” and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the +leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. + +“It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn’t +sentimental, doesn’t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he +says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don’t seem +to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and +tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it +full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know +it’s mine. He says he feels as if he ‘could make a prosperous voyage +now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast’. I pray he +may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain +with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while +God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven +this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!” + +“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work +miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” and Jo laid the rustling +sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a +lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he +finds himself alone in the workaday world again. + +By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not +walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, +not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one +sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true, +she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for +affection was strong, and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing for +someone to ‘love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them +be together’. Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended +stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners +name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended +now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned +her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, +till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out, +turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. +Kirke’s. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, +and when she came to a little message written in the Professor’s hand, +her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat +looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched +a tender spot in her heart. + +“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely +come.” + +“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my +dear old Fritz. I didn’t value him half enough when I had him, but now +how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, +and I’m all alone.” + +And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be +fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, +as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof. + +Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking +up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its +inspirer? Who shall say? + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-THREE +SURPRISES + + +Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the +fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of +dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s little +red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender +thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked +tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she +was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and +how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and +nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal +to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it. + +“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen +for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence +a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I’m old and can’t +enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and don’t need it. +Well, I needn’t be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, +old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but...” and +there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting. + +It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to +five-and-twenty. But it’s not as bad as it looks, and one can get on +quite happily if one has something in one’s self to fall back upon. At +twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly +resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it, +but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by +remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which +they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don’t laugh at the +spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are +hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, +and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, +make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight. Even the sad, sour +sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the +sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with +compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that +they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don’t last +forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and +that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and +admiration now. + +Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter +how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that +which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, +and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect +the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and +petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out +of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches +the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old +feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little +attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The +bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all +the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part +mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a +tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who +has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for ‘the best nevvy +in the world’. + +Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this +little homily), for suddenly Laurie’s ghost seemed to stand before her, +a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he +used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn’t like to show it. But, +like Jenny in the ballad... + +“She could not think it he,” + +and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and +kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully... + +“Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!” + +“Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?” + +“Glad! My blessed boy, words can’t express my gladness. Where’s Amy?” + +“Your mother has got her down at Meg’s. We stopped there by the way, +and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches.” + +“Your what?” cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an +unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him. + +“Oh, the dickens! Now I’ve done it,” and he looked so guilty that Jo +was down on him like a flash. + +“You’ve gone and got married!” + +“Yes, please, but I never will again,” and he went down upon his knees, +with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, +and triumph. + +“Actually married?” + +“Very much so, thank you.” + +“Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?” and Jo fell into +her seat with a gasp. + +“A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,” +returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with +satisfaction. + +“What can you expect, when you take one’s breath away, creeping in like +a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you +ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it.” + +“Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to +barricade.” + +Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted +the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, “The old pillow is +up garret, and we don’t need it now. So, come and ’fess, Teddy.” + +“How good it sounds to hear you say ‘Teddy’! No one ever calls me that +but you,” and Laurie sat down with an air of great content. + +“What does Amy call you?” + +“My lord.” + +“That’s like her. Well, you look it,” and Jo’s eye plainly betrayed +that she found her boy comelier than ever. + +The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural +one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and +for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a +little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, +with a vain attempt at dignity... + +“Don’t I look like a married man and the head of a family?” + +“Not a bit, and you never will. You’ve grown bigger and bonnier, but +you are the same scapegrace as ever.” + +“Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,” began +Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely. + +“How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so +irresistibly funny that I can’t keep sober!” answered Jo, smiling all +over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then +settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion. + +“It’s no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all +coming up presently. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to be the one to tell +you the grand surprise, and have ‘first skim’ as we used to say when we +squabbled about the cream.” + +“Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong +end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I’m pining to +know.” + +“Well, I did it to please Amy,” began Laurie, with a twinkle that made +Jo exclaim... + +“Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, +if you can, sir.” + +“Now she’s beginning to marm it. Isn’t it jolly to hear her?” said +Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite +agreed. “It’s all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned +to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly +changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But +Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn’t let +him go alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got +English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn’t let Amy +come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, ‘Let’s be +married, and then we can do as we like’.” + +“Of course you did. You always have things to suit you.” + +“Not always,” and something in Laurie’s voice made Jo say hastily... + +“How did you ever get Aunt to agree?” + +“It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps +of good reasons on our side. There wasn’t time to write and ask leave, +but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only +‘taking time by the fetlock’, as my wife says.” + +“Aren’t we proud of those two words, and don’t we like to say them?” +interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with +delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been +so tragically gloomy when she saw them last. + +“A trifle, perhaps, she’s such a captivating little woman I can’t help +being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play +propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use +apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all +round, so we did it.” + +“When, where, how?” asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and +curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle. + +“Six weeks ago, at the American consul’s, in Paris, a very quiet +wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn’t forget dear +little Beth.” + +Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the +little red pillow, which he remembered well. + +“Why didn’t you let us know afterward?” asked Jo, in a quieter tone, +when they had sat quite still a minute. + +“We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at +first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he +couldn’t be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our +honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular +honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but +once in their lives. My faith! Wasn’t it love among the roses!” + +Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the +fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured +her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away +her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the +half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly +gravity she had never seen in him before... + +“Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we’ll put it by forever. +As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to +me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have +learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places +in my heart, that’s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have +come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I +never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, +headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my +mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after +making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, +at one time, that I didn’t know which I loved best, you or Amy, and +tried to love you both alike. But I couldn’t, and when I saw her in +Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got +into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the +old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my +heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you +believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one +another?” + +“I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy +and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t +expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for +playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I’m sure you feel +this. I see the change in you, and you’ll find it in me. I shall miss +my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because +he means to be what I hoped he would. We can’t be little playmates any +longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another +all our lives, won’t we, Laurie?” + +He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his +face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish +passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them +both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn’t want the coming home +to be a sad one, “I can’t make it true that you children are really +married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday +that I was buttoning Amy’s pinafore, and pulling your hair when you +teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!” + +“As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn’t talk so +like a grandma. I flatter myself I’m a ‘gentleman growed’ as Peggotty +said of David, and when you see Amy, you’ll find her rather a +precocious infant,” said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air. + +“You may be a little older in years, but I’m ever so much older in +feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a +hard one that I feel forty.” + +“Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You +are older. Here’s a line, and there’s another. Unless you smile, your +eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear +on it. You’ve had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. +What a selfish beast I’ve been!” and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a +remorseful look. + +But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone +which she tried to make more cheerful, “No, I had Father and Mother to +help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you +and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. +I am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it’s good for me, and...” + +“You never shall be again,” broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, +as if to fence out every human ill. “Amy and I can’t get on without +you, so you must come and teach ‘the children’ to keep house, and go +halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and +all be blissfully happy and friendly together.” + +“If I shouldn’t be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to +feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly +away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy,” and Jo leaned +her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill +and Laurie told her to hold on to him. + +He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was +smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his +coming. + +“You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and +laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?” + +“I was wondering how you and Amy get on together.” + +“Like angels!” + +“Yes, of course, but which rules?” + +“I don’t mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think +so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for +marriage, they say, halves one’s rights and doubles one’s duties.” + +“You’ll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your +life.” + +“Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don’t think I shall mind +much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I +rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and +prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you +a favor all the while.” + +“That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying +it!” cried Jo, with uplifted hands. + +It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with +masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his “high and +mighty” air, “Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of +man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another +too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel.” + +Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy +seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her +pleasure. + +“I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is +the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, +you remember.” + +“She can blow him up as well as shine on him,” laughed Laurie. “Such a +lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than +any of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I’ll tell you all about it +sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised +and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and +married the good-for-nothing.” + +“What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I’ll defend +you.” + +“I look as if I needed it, don’t I?” said Laurie, getting up and +striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the +rapturous, as Amy’s voice was heard calling, “Where is she? Where’s my +dear old Jo?” + +In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all +over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were +set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and +hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign +tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the +old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier +than ever. It was good to see him beam at ‘my children’, as he called +the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly +duty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all, +to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying +the pretty picture they made. + +The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own +dress hadn’t a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely +eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that ‘her ladyship’ was altogether +a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair, +“How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the +beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than +clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him.” Mrs. March and +her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they +saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but +the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness. + +For Amy’s face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a +peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, +prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and +winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of +her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for +it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true +gentlewoman she had hoped to become. + +“Love has done much for our little girl,” said her mother softly. + +“She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear,” Mr. +March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head +beside him. + +Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her ‘pitty aunty’, but +attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of +delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before +he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took +the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank +movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew +where to have him. + +“Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you +hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,” and +with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew +in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted +his boyish soul. + +“Blest if she ain’t in silk from head to foot; ain’t it a relishin’ +sight to see her settin’ there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks +calling little Amy ‘Mis. Laurence!’” muttered old Hannah, who could not +resist frequent “peeks” through the slide as she set the table in a +most decidedly promiscuous manner. + +Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all +burst out together—trying to tell the history of three years in half an +hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and +provide refreshment—for they would have been hoarse and faint if they +had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the +little dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. +March as proudly leaned on the arm of ‘my son’. The old gentleman took +Jo, with a whispered, “You must be my girl now,” and a glance at the +empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, “I’ll try to fill +her place, sir.” + +The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for +everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at +their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the +opportunity. Didn’t they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad +libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn’t +they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, +there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human +nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness +of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo’s sharp eyes would +pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, +the little sinners attached themselves to ‘Dranpa’, who hadn’t his +spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to +the parlor on Father Laurence’s arm. The others paired off as before, +and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the +minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah’s eager inquiry. + +“Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver +dishes that’s stored away over yander?” + +“Shouldn’t wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, +and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too +good for her,” returned Jo with infinite satisfaction. + +“No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?” +asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose. + +“I don’t care,” and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an +uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party +vanishing above, and as Demi’s short plaid legs toiled up the last +stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she +looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, +for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift +was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to +herself, “I’ll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won’t do to be +dismal now.” Then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her +boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had +just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch +door. + +She opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had +come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming +on her from the darkness like a midnight sun. + +“Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!” cried Jo, with a clutch, as +if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him +in. + +“And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party,” and the Professor +paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to +them. + +“No, we haven’t, only the family. My sister and friends have just come +home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us.” + +Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously +away, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the +door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had +something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, +and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary +man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes. + +“If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You +haf been ill, my friend?” + +He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light +fell on her face, and he saw a change in it. + +“Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you +last.” + +“Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that,” and he +shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no +comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, +warm hand. + +“Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer,” she said, with a +face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might +as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish. + +If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at +rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted +him kindly, for Jo’s sake at first, but very soon they liked him for +his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens +all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even +the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who +live above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. +Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a +strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at home. The children +went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on +each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling +his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The +women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling +that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his +guest’s benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but +said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep. + +If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie’s behavior would have +amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like +suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe +the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long. +He got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn +into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, +and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at +him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting +his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his +eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered +the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take +care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept +them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. + +A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water +after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several +propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer’s face had lost the absent-minded +expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, +actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him +with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. +Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the +ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be +considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when +Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she +watched her father’s absorbed face, “How he would enjoy having such a +man as my Professor to talk with every day!” Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was +dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a +gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, +but didn’t stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it +up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect +better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a +Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she +sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even +the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his +immaculate wristbands. + +“Dear old fellow! He couldn’t have got himself up with more care if +he’d been going a-wooing,” said Jo to herself, and then a sudden +thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to +drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face. + +The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for +though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor +dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the +little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, +saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to +resume their seats, wishing they had not left them. + +Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted +the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr. +Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking +away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal +mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of +bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of +matches, made a move to go. + +“We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together +again once more,” said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe +and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul. + +They were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or +untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, +invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the +household league that love made dissoluble. The little chair stood in +its old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left +unfinished when the needle grew ‘so heavy’, was still on its accustomed +shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved, +and above it Beth’s face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, +looked down upon them, seeming to say, “Be happy. I am here.” + +“Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,” said +Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil. + +But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, “Not +tonight, dear. I can’t show off tonight.” + +But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she +sang Beth’s songs with a tender music in her voice which the best +master could not have taught, and touched the listener’s hearts with a +sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room +was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line +of Beth’s favorite hymn. It was hard to say... + +Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal; + + +and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that +her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth’s kiss. + +“Now, we must finish with Mignon’s song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that,” +said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his +throat with a gratified “Hem!” as he stepped into the corner where Jo +stood, saying... + +“You will sing with me? We go excellently well together.” + +A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a +grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a +whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. +It didn’t much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily +and well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might +listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone. + +Know’st thou the land where the citron blooms, + + +used to be the Professor’s favorite line, for ‘das land’ meant Germany +to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, +upon the words... + +There, oh there, might I with thee, +O, my beloved, go + + +and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she +longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither +whenever he liked. + +The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered +with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners +entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been +introduced simply as ‘my sister’, and no one had called her by her new +name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, +in his most gracious manner, at parting... + +“My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that +there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way.” + +Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly +illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most +delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met. + +“I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me +leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here +some days.” + +He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother’s voice +gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter’s eyes, for Mrs. March +was not so blind to her children’s interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed. + +“I suspect that is a wise man,” remarked Mr. March, with placid +satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone. + +“I know he is a good one,” added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as +she wound up the clock. + +“I thought you’d like him,” was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her +bed. + +She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, +and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor, +somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen +his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a +severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to +be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon +the subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the +picture in the dark. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR +MY LORD AND LADY + + +“Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The +luggage has come, and I’ve been making hay of Amy’s Paris finery, +trying to find some things I want,” said Laurie, coming in the next day +to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother’s lap, as if being made +‘the baby’ again. + +“Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,” and +Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if +asking pardon for her maternal covetousness. + +“I shouldn’t have come over if I could have helped it, but I can’t get +on without my little woman any more than a...” + +“Weathercock can without the wind,” suggested Jo, as he paused for a +simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came +home. + +“Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with +only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven’t had an +easterly spell since I was married. Don’t know anything about the +north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?” + +“Lovely weather so far. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m not +afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Come home, +dear, and I’ll find your bootjack. I suppose that’s what you are +rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother,” said +Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband. + +“What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?” asked +Jo, buttoning Amy’s cloak as she used to button her pinafores. + +“We have our plans. We don’t mean to say much about them yet, because +we are such very new brooms, but we don’t intend to be idle. I’m going +into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove +to him that I’m not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me +steady. I’m tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man.” + +“And Amy, what is she going to do?” asked Mrs. March, well pleased at +Laurie’s decision and the energy with which he spoke. + +“After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall +astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant +society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall +exert over the world at large. That’s about it, isn’t it, Madame +Recamier?” asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy. + +“Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don’t shock my family by +calling me names before their faces,” answered Amy, resolving that +there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon +as a queen of society. + +“How happy those children seem together!” observed Mr. March, finding +it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple +had gone. + +“Yes, and I think it will last,” added Mrs. March, with the restful +expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port. + +“I know it will. Happy Amy!” and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as +Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push. + +Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the +bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, “Mrs. Laurence.” + +“My Lord!” + +“That man intends to marry our Jo!” + +“I hope so, don’t you, dear?” + +“Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that +expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal +richer.” + +“Now, Laurie, don’t be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love +one another it doesn’t matter a particle how old they are nor how poor. +Women never should marry for money...” Amy caught herself up short as +the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with +malicious gravity... + +“Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend +to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your +duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a +good-for-nothing like me.” + +“Oh, my dearest boy, don’t, don’t say that! I forgot you were rich when +I said ‘Yes’. I’d have married you if you hadn’t a penny, and I +sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you.” +And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, +gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. + +“You don’t really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be +once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn’t believe that I’d +gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your +living by rowing on the lake.” + +“Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a +richer man for me, and won’t let me give you half I want to now, when I +have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to +think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and +though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the +daughter was true to the mother’s teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, +and she looked as glad and grateful as if I’d given her a check for a +million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral +remarks, Mrs. Laurence,” and Laurie paused, for Amy’s eyes had an +absent look, though fixed upon his face. + +“Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I +don’t wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I’m prouder of my +handsome husband than of all his money. Don’t laugh, but your nose is +such a comfort to me,” and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature +with artistic satisfaction. + +Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that +suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his +wife’s peculiar taste, while she said slowly, “May I ask you a +question, dear?” + +“Of course, you may.” + +“Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?” + +“Oh, that’s the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the +dimple that didn’t quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but +the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo’s wedding +with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?” + +Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear +vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and +confidence. + +“I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn’t +we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in +Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?” said Laurie, when they +began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they +were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden. + +“Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just +as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful +thing.” + +“Bless her dear heart! She won’t think so when she has a literary +husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We +won’t interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in +spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she +believes in people’s paying their honest debts, so I’ll get round her +in that way.” + +“How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn’t it? That was +always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks +to you, the dream has come true.” + +“Ah, we’ll do quantities of good, won’t we? There’s one sort of poverty +that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care +of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won’t ask, and +people don’t dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of +helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does +not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than +a blarnerying beggar. I suppose it’s wrong, but I do, though it is +harder.” + +“Because it takes a gentleman to do it,” added the other member of the +domestic admiration society. + +“Thank you, I’m afraid I don’t deserve that pretty compliment. But I +was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good +many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and +enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid +fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so +full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, +and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it’s a +satisfaction to help, for if they’ve got genius, it’s an honor to be +allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of +fuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven’t, it’s a pleasure to +comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it +out.” + +“Yes, indeed, and there’s another class who can’t ask, and who suffer +in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you +made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old +story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see +youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a +little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and +whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put +out my hand and help them, as I was helped.” + +“And so you shall, like an angel as you are!” cried Laurie, resolving, +with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution +for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. “Rich +people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their +money accumulate for others to waste. It’s not half so sensible to +leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while +alive, and enjoy making one’s fellow creatures happy with it. We’ll +have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure +by giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, +going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with +good deeds?” + +“With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you +ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar.” + +“It’s a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!” + +So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, +feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped +to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more +uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough +ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely +knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest +than they. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE +DAISY AND DEMI + + +I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March +family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious +and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of +discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their +rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do. +If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled +by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the +most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention +that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and +at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a +propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a +‘needler’, and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She +likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a +microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to +Hannah’s eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who +invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with +his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy +early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and +distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, +and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his ‘sewinsheen’, a +mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for +wheels to go ‘wound and wound’. Also a basket hung over the back of a +chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, +with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till +rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, “Why, Marmar, +dat’s my lellywaiter, and me’s trying to pull her up.” + +Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well +together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi +tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other +aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her +brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny +little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody’s heart, and +nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be +kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and +produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small +virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few +small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all +fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the +window in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether +it rained or shone, “Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!” Everyone was a +friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the +most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful +worshipers. + +“Me loves evvybody,” she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in +one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish +the whole world. + +As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote would be +blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which +had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be +spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had +entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her ‘Beth’, +and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if +trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could +see. + +Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know +everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get +satisfactory answers to his perpetual “What for?” + +He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his +grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which +the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised +satisfaction of the womenfolk. + +“What makes my legs go, Dranpa?” asked the young philosopher, surveying +those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting +after a go-to-bed frolic one night. + +“It’s your little mind, Demi,” replied the sage, stroking the yellow +head respectfully. + +“What is a little mine?” + +“It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the +wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you.” + +“Open me. I want to see it go wound.” + +“I can’t do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you +up, and you go till He stops you.” + +“Does I?” and Demi’s brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the +new thought. “Is I wounded up like the watch?” + +“Yes, but I can’t show you how, for it is done when we don’t see.” + +Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, +and then gravely remarked, “I dess Dod does it when I’s asleep.” + +A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively +that his anxious grandmother said, “My dear, do you think it wise to +talk about such things to that baby? He’s getting great bumps over his +eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions.” + +“If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive +true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping +him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are, +and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him. +Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind.” + +If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, “By the gods, Socrates, I +cannot tell,” his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when, +after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he +answered, in a tone of calm conviction, “In my little belly,” the old +gentleman could only join in Grandma’s laugh, and dismiss the class in +metaphysics. + +There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given +convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding +philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to +prophesy, with ominous nods, “That child ain’t long for this world,” he +would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with +which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their +parent’s souls. + +Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was +ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the +tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show +themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers? + +“No more raisins, Demi. They’ll make you sick,” says Mamma to the young +person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity +on plum-pudding day. + +“Me likes to be sick.” + +“I don’t want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty +cakes.” + +He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and +by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma +by a shrewd bargain. + +“Now you have been good children, and I’ll play anything you like,” +says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding +is safely bouncing in the pot. + +“Truly, Marmar?” asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered +head. + +“Yes, truly. Anything you say,” replies the shortsighted parent, +preparing herself to sing, “The Three Little Kittens” half a dozen +times over, or to take her family to “Buy a penny bun,” regardless of +wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply... + +“Then we’ll go and eat up all the raisins.” + +Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the +trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a +name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but +Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for +which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo +neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their +little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost +her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with infantile +penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with ‘the bear-man’ +better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for +he hadn’t the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate +drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of +its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers. + +Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, +but Demi didn’t see it in that light, and continued to patronize the +‘the bear-man’ with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small +affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her +throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth. + +Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the +young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this +counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not +deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer’s devotion was sincere, however +likewise effective—for honesty is the best policy in love as in law. He +was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked +particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his +manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, +but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see—well, he always asked +for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa +labored under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long discussions +with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing +grandson suddenly enlightened him. + +Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, +astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay +Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, +likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own +short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed +that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his +sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face... + +“Father, Father, here’s the Professor!” + +Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor +said, with undisturbed dignity, “Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for +a moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter +and tell its name.” + +“I knows him!” and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took +the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil +triumphantly shouted, “It’s a We, Dranpa, it’s a We!” + +“He’s a born Weller,” laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, +and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of +expressing his satisfaction that school was over. + +“What have you been at today, bubchen?” asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the +gymnast. + +“Me went to see little Mary.” + +“And what did you there?” + +“I kissed her,” began Demi, with artless frankness. + +“Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?” +asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon +the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket. + +“Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don’t little boys +like little girls?” asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of +bland satisfaction. + +“You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?” said Jo, enjoying +the innocent revelation as much as the Professor. + +“’Tisn’t in mine head, it’s in mine mouf,” answered literal Demi, +putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she +alluded to confectionery, not ideas. + +“Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet, +mannling,” and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her +wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw +the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. .. + +“Do great boys like great girls, to, ’Fessor?” + +Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer ‘couldn’t tell a lie’, so he gave the +somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone +that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo’s retiring +face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the ‘precocious +chick’ had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour. + +Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour +afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a +tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she +followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big +slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi +puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-SIX +UNDER THE UMBRELLA + + +While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, +as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. +Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy +roads and sodden fields. + +“I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don’t know why I should +give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way +out,” said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though +there were two paths to Meg’s whichever one she took she was sure to +meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and +never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his +short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till +that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg’s he always had something +for the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled +down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired +of his frequent calls. + +Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and +invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her +weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee +for supper, “as Friedrich—I mean Mr. Bhaer—doesn’t like tea.” + +By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet +everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in +Jo’s face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her +hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise. +And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, +while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter +lessons in love. + +Jo couldn’t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried +to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated +life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, +after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was +her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with +praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer ‘a capital old fellow’ +in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo’s improved +appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor’s +hat on the Marches’ table nearly every evening. But he exulted in +private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece +of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat +of arms. + +For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like +regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, +a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become +pensive, at first, and then—alas for romance—very cross. + +“Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It’s +nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid +us goodbye like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing +look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one +dull afternoon. + +“You’d better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain,” said +her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding +to the fact. + +“Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and get +some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the +glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother. + +“Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and +two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, +and something warm under your cloak?” + +“I believe so,” answered Jo absently. + +“If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long +to see the dear man,” added Mrs. March. + +Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk +rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her +heartache, “How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any +mothers to help them through their troubles?” + +The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, +and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo +found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, +loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering +instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most +unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by +descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as +if they wondered ‘how the deuce she got there’. A drop of rain on her +cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For +the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she +felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her +bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten +to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing +could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at +the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, +forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, +at a certain grimy warehouse, with ‘Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.’ over the +door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air... + +“It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things +and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I’m +ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or +find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do +your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your +bonnet, it’s no more than you deserve. Now then!” + +With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly +escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself +into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, “I beg pardon, +ma’am,” and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted +herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting +temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the +ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a +somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected +bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer +looking down. + +“I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many +horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my +friend?” + +“I’m shopping.” + +Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to +the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said +politely, “You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the +bundles?” + +“Yes, thank you.” + +Jo’s cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought +of her, but she didn’t care, for in a minute she found herself walking +away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly +burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, +and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that +day. + +“We thought you had gone,” said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking +at her. Her bonnet wasn’t big enough to hide her face, and she feared +he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly. + +“Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf +been so heavenly kind to me?” he asked so reproachfully that she felt +as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily... + +“No, I didn’t. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we +rather missed you, Father and Mother especially.” + +“And you?” + +“I’m always glad to see you, sir.” + +In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, +and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the +Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely... + +“I thank you, and come one more time before I go.” + +“You are going, then?” + +“I haf no longer any business here, it is done.” + +“Successfully, I hope?” said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment +was in that short reply of his. + +“I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make +my bread and gif my Junglings much help.” + +“Tell me, please! I like to know all about the—the boys,” said Jo +eagerly. + +“That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in +a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way +smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I +not?” + +“Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you +like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!” cried Jo, clinging +to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help +betraying. + +“Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West.” + +“So far away!” and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn’t +matter now what became of her clothes or herself. + +Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read +women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, +therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and +manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was +in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she +met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help +suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered +her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but +when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply +that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost +clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his +destination, she said, “So far away!” in a tone of despair that lifted +him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down +again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter... + +“Here’s the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won’t take +long.” + +Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and +particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and +dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the +flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of +needles, forgot the silesia was to be ‘twilled’ till it was cut off, +gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for +lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her +blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to +subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women, +like dreams, go by contraries. + +When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more +cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather +enjoyed it on the whole. + +“Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and +haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so +pleasant home?” he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and +flowers. + +“What will we buy?” asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, +and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they +went in. + +“May they haf oranges and figs?” asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air. + +“They eat them when they can get them.” + +“Do you care for nuts?” + +“Like a squirrel.” + +“Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?” + +Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn’t buy +a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done +with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and +finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of +rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of +a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving +her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled +on again. + +“Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you,” began the Professor, +after a moist promenade of half a block. + +“Yes, sir?” and Jo’s heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he +would hear it. + +“I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time +remains to me.” + +“Yes, sir,” and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden +squeeze she gave it. + +“I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go +alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?” + +“Yes, sir,” and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had +stepped into a refrigerator. + +“Perhaps also a shawl for Tina’s mother, she is so poor and sick, and +the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a +friendly thing to take the little mother.” + +“I’ll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer.” “I’m going very fast, and he’s +getting dearer every minute,” added Jo to herself, then with a mental +shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to +behold. + +Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and +then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, +condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be +shopping for their family. + +“Your lady may prefer this. It’s a superior article, a most desirable +color, quite chaste and genteel,” he said, shaking out a comfortable +gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo’s shoulders. + +“Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?” she asked, turning her back to him, +and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face. + +“Excellently well, we will haf it,” answered the Professor, smiling to +himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters +like a confirmed bargain-hunter. + +“Now shall we go home?” he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to +him. + +“Yes, it’s late, and I’m _so_ tired.” Jo’s voice was more pathetic than +she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came +out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first +time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that +her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. +Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all +a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her +head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that +the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged. + +“This is not our omniboos,” said the Professor, waving the loaded +vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers. + +“I beg your pardon. I didn’t see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can +walk. I’m used to plodding in the mud,” returned Jo, winking hard, +because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes. + +Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. +The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he +asked in a tone that meant a great deal, “Heart’s dearest, why do you +cry?” + +Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said +she wasn’t crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine +fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature +answered, with an irrepressible sob, “Because you are going away.” + +“Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!” cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp +his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, “Jo, I haf nothing +but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I +waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can +you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?” he added, all in +one breath. + +“Oh, yes!” said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both +hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that +plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, +even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he +carried it. + +It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had +desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on +account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except +figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender +remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only +way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an +expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there +actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his +beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don’t think he could have +done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a +deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her +bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful +woman living, and she found him more “Jove-like” than ever, though his +hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his +shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of +his gloves needed mending. + +Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they +entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious +of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for +they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any +life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the +plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of +heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the +world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo +trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and +wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she +was the first to speak—intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks +which followed her impetuous “Oh, yes!” were not of a coherent or +reportable character. + +“Friedrich, why didn’t you...” + +“Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!” +cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful +delight. + +“I always call you so to myself—I forgot, but I won’t unless you like +it.” + +“Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say ‘thou’, also, and +I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine.” + +“Isn’t ‘thou’ a little sentimental?” asked Jo, privately thinking it a +lovely monosyllable. + +“Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and +keep ourselves young mit it. Your English ‘you’ is so cold, say ‘thou’, +heart’s dearest, it means so much to me,” pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like +a romantic student than a grave professor. + +“Well, then, why didn’t thou tell me all this sooner?” asked Jo +bashfully. + +“Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, +because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo—ah, the +dear, funny little name—I had a wish to tell something the day I said +goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to +thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said ‘Yes’, then, if I had +spoken?” + +“I don’t know. I’m afraid not, for I didn’t have any heart just then.” + +“Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came +through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, ‘Die erste Liebe ist die +beste’, but that I should not expect.” + +“Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had +another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,” +said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor’s mistake. + +“Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I +haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, +Professorin.” + +“I like that,” cried Jo, delighted with her new name. “Now tell me what +brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?” + +“This,” and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat +pocket. + +Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own +contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her +sending it an occasional attempt. + +“How could that bring you?” she asked, wondering what he meant. + +“I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in +it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find +him. I will see that you go not in the wet.” + +IN THE GARRET + + +Four little chests all in a row, +Dim with dust, and worn by time, +All fashioned and filled, long ago, +By children now in their prime. +Four little keys hung side by side, +With faded ribbons, brave and gay +When fastened there, with childish pride, +Long ago, on a rainy day. +Four little names, one on each lid, +Carved out by a boyish hand, +And underneath there lieth hid +Histories of the happy band +Once playing here, and pausing oft +To hear the sweet refrain, +That came and went on the roof aloft, +In the falling summer rain. + + +“Meg” on the first lid, smooth and fair. +I look in with loving eyes, +For folded here, with well-known care, +A goodly gathering lies, +The record of a peaceful life— +Gifts to gentle child and girl, +A bridal gown, lines to a wife, +A tiny shoe, a baby curl. +No toys in this first chest remain, +For all are carried away, +In their old age, to join again +In another small Meg’s play. +Ah, happy mother! Well I know +You hear, like a sweet refrain, +Lullabies ever soft and low +In the falling summer rain. + + +“Jo” on the next lid, scratched and worn, +And within a motley store +Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, +Birds and beasts that speak no more, +Spoils brought home from the fairy ground +Only trod by youthful feet, +Dreams of a future never found, +Memories of a past still sweet, +Half-writ poems, stories wild, +April letters, warm and cold, +Diaries of a wilful child, +Hints of a woman early old, +A woman in a lonely home, +Hearing, like a sad refrain— +“Be worthy, love, and love will come,” +In the falling summer rain. + + +My Beth! the dust is always swept +From the lid that bears your name, +As if by loving eyes that wept, +By careful hands that often came. +Death canonized for us one saint, +Ever less human than divine, +And still we lay, with tender plaint, +Relics in this household shrine— +The silver bell, so seldom rung, +The little cap which last she wore, +The fair, dead Catherine that hung +By angels borne above her door. +The songs she sang, without lament, +In her prison-house of pain, +Forever are they sweetly blent +With the falling summer rain. + + +Upon the last lid’s polished field— +Legend now both fair and true +A gallant knight bears on his shield, +“Amy” in letters gold and blue. +Within lie snoods that bound her hair, +Slippers that have danced their last, +Faded flowers laid by with care, +Fans whose airy toils are past, +Gay valentines, all ardent flames, +Trifles that have borne their part +In girlish hopes and fears and shames, +The record of a maiden heart +Now learning fairer, truer spells, +Hearing, like a blithe refrain, +The silver sound of bridal bells +In the falling summer rain. + + +Four little chests all in a row, +Dim with dust, and worn by time, +Four women, taught by weal and woe +To love and labor in their prime. +Four sisters, parted for an hour, +None lost, one only gone before, +Made by love’s immortal power, +Nearest and dearest evermore. +Oh, when these hidden stores of ours +Lie open to the Father’s sight, +May they be rich in golden hours, +Deeds that show fairer for the light, +Lives whose brave music long shall ring, +Like a spirit-stirring strain, +Souls that shall gladly soar and sing +In the long sunshine after rain. + + +“It’s very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I +was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it +would go where it could tell tales,” said Jo, tearing up the verses the +Professor had treasured so long. + +“Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I +read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets,” said +Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the +wind. “Yes,” he added earnestly, “I read that, and I think to myself, +She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I +haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, ‘If this is not +too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in +Gott’s name?’” + +“And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious +thing I needed,” whispered Jo. + +“I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your +welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, ‘I will haf +her if I die for it,’ and so I will!” cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant +nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he +was to surmount or valiantly knock down. + +Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, +though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array. + +“What made you stay away so long?” she asked presently, finding it so +pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that +she could not keep silent. + +“It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that +so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after +much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so +much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?” + +“I’m glad you are poor. I couldn’t bear a rich husband,” said Jo +decidedly, adding in a softer tone, “Don’t fear poverty. I’ve known it +long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and +don’t call yourself old—forty is the prime of life. I couldn’t help +loving you if you were seventy!” + +The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of +his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn’t, Jo wiped +his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or +two... + +“I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I’m out of my sphere now, +for woman’s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing +burdens. I’m to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home. +Make up your mind to that, or I’ll never go,” she added resolutely, as +he tried to reclaim his load. + +“We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away +and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, +I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy +while we hope and wait?” + +“Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the +rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn’t enjoy +myself if I neglected them even for you, so there’s no need of hurry or +impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both +be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God +wills.” + +“Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif +back but a full heart and these empty hands,” cried the Professor, +quite overcome. + +Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they +stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering +tenderly, “Not empty now,” and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich +under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the +flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, +for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything +but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that +was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the +night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and +peace waiting to receive them, with a glad “Welcome home!” Jo led her +lover in, and shut the door. + + + + +CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN +HARVEST TIME + + +For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met +occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the +price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began +rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March +died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over—for they loved the +old lady in spite of her sharp tongue—they found they had cause for +rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of +joyful things possible. + +“It’s a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course +you intend to sell it,” said Laurie, as they were all talking the +matter over some weeks later. + +“No, I don’t,” was Jo’s decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, +whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress. + +“You don’t mean to live there?” + +“Yes, I do.” + +“But, my dear girl, it’s an immense house, and will take a power of +money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or +three men, and farming isn’t in Bhaer’s line, I take it.” + +“He’ll try his hand at it there, if I propose it.” + +“And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds +paradisiacal, but you’ll find it desperate hard work.” + +“The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one,” and Jo laughed. + +“Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma’am?” + +“Boys. I want to open a school for little lads—a good, happy, homelike +school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them.” + +“That’s a truly Joian plan for you! Isn’t that just like her?” cried +Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he. + +“I like it,” said Mrs. March decidedly. + +“So do I,” added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for +trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth. + +“It will be an immense care for Jo,” said Meg, stroking the head of her +one all-absorbing son. + +“Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It’s a splendid idea. Tell us all +about it,” cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers +a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help. + +“I knew you’d stand by me, sir. Amy does too—I see it in her eyes, +though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she +speaks. Now, my dear people,” continued Jo earnestly, “just understand +that this isn’t a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before +my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I’d made my fortune, and no +one needed me at home, I’d hire a big house, and pick up some poor, +forlorn little lads who hadn’t any mothers, and take care of them, and +make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to +ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for +them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, +and oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!” + +Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in +her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not +seen for a long while. + +“I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would +like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he’s +been doing it all his life—helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich, +that he’ll never be. Money doesn’t stay in his pocket long enough to +lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better +than I ever deserved, I’m rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at +Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It’s just +the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and +plain. There’s plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds +outside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is +healthy, isn’t it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach in his own +way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold +them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I’ve always longed for lots of +boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in +the little dears to my heart’s content. Think what luxury— Plumfield my +own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me.” + +As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off +into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought +he’d have an apoplectic fit. + +“I don’t see anything funny,” she said gravely, when she could be +heard. “Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor +to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate.” + +“She is putting on airs already,” said Laurie, who regarded the idea in +the light of a capital joke. “But may I inquire how you intend to +support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, +I’m afraid your crop won’t be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. +Bhaer.” + +“Now don’t be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, +also—perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I’ve got a start, I +can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people’s +children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I’ve seen +unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed +forward, when it’s real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment +or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get +through the hobbledehoy age, and that’s the very time they need most +patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try +to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from +pretty children into fine young men. They don’t complain much—plucky +little souls—but they feel it. I’ve been through something of it, and I +know all about it. I’ve a special interest in such young bears, and +like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys’ +hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. +I’ve had experience, too, for haven’t I brought up one boy to be a +pride and honor to his family?” + +“I’ll testify that you tried to do it,” said Laurie with a grateful +look. + +“And I’ve succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady, +sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying +up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not +merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them +yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. +I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone +feels it, though you won’t let them say so. Yes, and when I have my +flock, I’ll just point to you, and say ‘There’s your model, my lads’.” + +Poor Laurie didn’t know where to look, for, man though he was, +something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise +made all faces turn approvingly upon him. + +“I say, Jo, that’s rather too much,” he began, just in his old boyish +way. “You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, +except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me +off lately, Jo, but I’ve had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if +I’ve got on at all, you may thank these two for it,” and he laid one +hand gently on his grandfather’s head, and the other on Amy’s golden +one, for the three were never far apart. + +“I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the +world!” burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind +just then. “When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as +the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only +here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth,” she added more +quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful +evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of +happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed +always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth. + +It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen +in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew +where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then +a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished +surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was +continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the +Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for +its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and +furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted. + +Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but +the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most +rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her +‘wilderness of boys’, and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented +had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered +Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of +poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the +terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely +on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, +and played cricket in the big field where the irritable ‘cow with a +crumpled horn’ used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It +became a sort of boys’ paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be +called the ‘Bhaer-garten’, as a compliment to its master and +appropriate to its inhabitants. + +It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a +fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be—‘a happy, homelike +place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness’. Every room in +the big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had +its owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet +animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz +from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy +young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding +words, and grateful hearts, full of love for ‘Mother Bhaer’. She had +boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, +by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin +much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists +in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little +ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal +boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as +benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times +seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their +penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching +little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even +their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. +There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys, +boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a +merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was +welcome to the ‘Bhaer-garten’, though some people predicted that his +admission would ruin the school. + +Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much +anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the +applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for +now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers +and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to +increase her happiness—Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a +happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa’s sunshiny +temper as well as his mother’s lively spirit. How they ever grew up +alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and +aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough +nurses loved and served them well. + +There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most +delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, +Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day +of it. Five years after Jo’s wedding, one of these fruitful festivals +occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an +exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance +healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire. +Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped +briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a +feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered +their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to +send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. +Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled +down. Everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day +or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to the +simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things +as care or sorrow in the world. + +Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and +Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying... + +The gentle apple’s winey juice. + +The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout +Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made +a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the +way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little +ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among +the bird’s nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. +March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting +the contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful +motherly expression in her face sketched the various groups, and +watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch +beside him. + +Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned +up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her +arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy +bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never +felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, +galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by +his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies +could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and +their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in +time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back +with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly. + +At four o’clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while +the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and +Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the +grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. +The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for +the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of +refreshment as they liked—freedom being the sauce best beloved by the +boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the +fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk +while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by +eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over +the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of +bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the +edibles at his own sweet will. + +When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first +regular toast, which was always drunk at such times—“Aunt March, God +bless her!” A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot +how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been +taught to keep her memory green. + +“Now, Grandma’s sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times +three!” + +That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering +once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody’s health was proposed, +from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the +astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search +of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the +queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were +transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some +of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments +to Grandma’s—for the children’s gifts were all their own. Every stitch +Daisy’s patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she +hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi’s miracle of +mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn’t shut, Rob’s footstool had a +wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page +of the costly book Amy’s child gave her was so fair as that on which +appeared in tipsy capitals, the words—“To dear Grandma, from her little +Beth.” + +During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when +Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while +Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to +sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and +from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys +sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie +set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best +effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand +success, for Mrs. March couldn’t get over her surprise, and insisted on +shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz +and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all. + +After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and +her daughters under the festival tree. + +“I don’t think I ever ought to call myself ‘unlucky Jo’ again, when my +greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified,” said Mrs. Bhaer, +taking Teddy’s little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was +rapturously churning. + +“And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long +ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?” asked Amy, smiling as she +watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys. + +“Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and +frolic for a day,” answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all +mankind. “Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish, +lonely, and cold to me now. I haven’t given up the hope that I may +write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I’m sure it will be all the +better for such experiences and illustrations as these,” and Jo pointed +from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the +Professor’s arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one +of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her +mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in +her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face +which never could grow old to them. + +“My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid +things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I +had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I’ve +got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world,” and +Meg laid her hand on her tall boy’s head, with a face full of tender +and devout content. + +“My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter +it, though, like Jo, I don’t relinquish all my artistic hopes, or +confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I’ve +begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing +I’ve ever done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so +that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little +angel.” + +As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping +child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little +creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy’s +sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one +love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy’s nature was growing +sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious, +strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good +fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, +from the most blessed for ... + +Into each life some rain must fall, +Some days must be dark and sad and dreary. + + +“She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don’t despond, but +hope and keep happy,” said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped +from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin’s pale +one. + +“I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie +to take more than half of every burden,” replied Amy warmly. “He never +lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so +devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can’t +love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, +‘Thank God, I’m a happy woman.’” + +“There’s no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I’m far +happier than I deserve,” added Jo, glancing from her good husband to +her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. “Fritz is +getting gray and stout. I’m growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty. +We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that +incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the +bed-clothes, though he’s set himself afire three times already. But in +spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and +never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among +boys, I can’t help using their expressions now and then.” + +“Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,” began Mrs. March, +frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of +countenance. + +“Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank +you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,” cried Jo, +with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow. + +“I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year,” said Amy +softly. + +“A large sheaf, but I know there’s room in your heart for it, Marmee +dear,” added Meg’s tender voice. + +Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if +to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and +voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility... + +“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a +greater happiness than this!” + + + + + + + *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITTLE WOMEN *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: Pride and Prejudice + + +Author: Jane Austen + +Release date: June 1, 1998 [eBook #1342] + Most recently updated: April 14, 2023 + +Language: English + +Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE *** + + + + + [Illustration: + + GEORGE ALLEN + PUBLISHER + + 156 CHARING CROSS ROAD + LONDON + + RUSKIN HOUSE + ] + + [Illustration: + + _Reading Jane’s Letters._ _Chap 34._ + ] + + + + + PRIDE. + and + PREJUDICE + + by + Jane Austen, + + with a Preface by + George Saintsbury + and + Illustrations by + Hugh Thomson + + [Illustration: 1894] + + Ruskin 156. Charing + House. Cross Road. + + London + George Allen. + + + + + CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. + TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. + + + + + [Illustration: + + _To J. Comyns Carr + in acknowledgment of all I + owe to his friendship and + advice, these illustrations are + gratefully inscribed_ + + _Hugh Thomson_ + ] + + + + +PREFACE. + +[Illustration] + + +_Walt Whitman has somewhere a fine and just distinction between “loving +by allowance” and “loving with personal love.” This distinction applies +to books as well as to men and women; and in the case of the not very +numerous authors who are the objects of the personal affection, it +brings a curious consequence with it. There is much more difference as +to their best work than in the case of those others who are loved “by +allowance” by convention, and because it is felt to be the right and +proper thing to love them. And in the sect--fairly large and yet +unusually choice--of Austenians or Janites, there would probably be +found partisans of the claim to primacy of almost every one of the +novels. To some the delightful freshness and humour of_ Northanger +Abbey, _its completeness, finish, and_ entrain, _obscure the undoubted +critical facts that its scale is small, and its scheme, after all, that +of burlesque or parody, a kind in which the first rank is reached with +difficulty._ Persuasion, _relatively faint in tone, and not enthralling +in interest, has devotees who exalt above all the others its exquisite +delicacy and keeping. The catastrophe of_ Mansfield Park _is admittedly +theatrical, the hero and heroine are insipid, and the author has almost +wickedly destroyed all romantic interest by expressly admitting that +Edmund only took Fanny because Mary shocked him, and that Fanny might +very likely have taken Crawford if he had been a little more assiduous; +yet the matchless rehearsal-scenes and the characters of Mrs. Norris and +others have secured, I believe, a considerable party for it._ Sense and +Sensibility _has perhaps the fewest out-and-out admirers; but it does +not want them._ + +_I suppose, however, that the majority of at least competent votes +would, all things considered, be divided between_ Emma _and the present +book; and perhaps the vulgar verdict (if indeed a fondness for Miss +Austen be not of itself a patent of exemption from any possible charge +of vulgarity) would go for_ Emma. _It is the larger, the more varied, the +more popular; the author had by the time of its composition seen rather +more of the world, and had improved her general, though not her most +peculiar and characteristic dialogue; such figures as Miss Bates, as the +Eltons, cannot but unite the suffrages of everybody. On the other hand, +I, for my part, declare for_ Pride and Prejudice _unhesitatingly. It +seems to me the most perfect, the most characteristic, the most +eminently quintessential of its author’s works; and for this contention +in such narrow space as is permitted to me, I propose here to show +cause._ + +_In the first place, the book (it may be barely necessary to remind the +reader) was in its first shape written very early, somewhere about 1796, +when Miss Austen was barely twenty-one; though it was revised and +finished at Chawton some fifteen years later, and was not published till +1813, only four years before her death. I do not know whether, in this +combination of the fresh and vigorous projection of youth, and the +critical revision of middle life, there may be traced the distinct +superiority in point of construction, which, as it seems to me, it +possesses over all the others. The plot, though not elaborate, is almost +regular enough for Fielding; hardly a character, hardly an incident +could be retrenched without loss to the story. The elopement of Lydia +and Wickham is not, like that of Crawford and Mrs. Rushworth, a_ coup de +théâtre; _it connects itself in the strictest way with the course of the +story earlier, and brings about the denouement with complete propriety. +All the minor passages--the loves of Jane and Bingley, the advent of Mr. +Collins, the visit to Hunsford, the Derbyshire tour--fit in after the +same unostentatious, but masterly fashion. There is no attempt at the +hide-and-seek, in-and-out business, which in the transactions between +Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax contributes no doubt a good deal to the +intrigue of_ Emma, _but contributes it in a fashion which I do not think +the best feature of that otherwise admirable book. Although Miss Austen +always liked something of the misunderstanding kind, which afforded her +opportunities for the display of the peculiar and incomparable talent to +be noticed presently, she has been satisfied here with the perfectly +natural occasions provided by the false account of Darcy’s conduct given +by Wickham, and by the awkwardness (arising with equal naturalness) from +the gradual transformation of Elizabeth’s own feelings from positive +aversion to actual love. I do not know whether the all-grasping hand of +the playwright has ever been laid upon_ Pride and Prejudice; _and I dare +say that, if it were, the situations would prove not startling or +garish enough for the footlights, the character-scheme too subtle and +delicate for pit and gallery. But if the attempt were made, it would +certainly not be hampered by any of those loosenesses of construction, +which, sometimes disguised by the conveniences of which the novelist can +avail himself, appear at once on the stage._ + +_I think, however, though the thought will doubtless seem heretical to +more than one school of critics, that construction is not the highest +merit, the choicest gift, of the novelist. It sets off his other gifts +and graces most advantageously to the critical eye; and the want of it +will sometimes mar those graces--appreciably, though not quite +consciously--to eyes by no means ultra-critical. But a very badly-built +novel which excelled in pathetic or humorous character, or which +displayed consummate command of dialogue--perhaps the rarest of all +faculties--would be an infinitely better thing than a faultless plot +acted and told by puppets with pebbles in their mouths. And despite the +ability which Miss Austen has shown in working out the story, I for one +should put_ Pride and Prejudice _far lower if it did not contain what +seem to me the very masterpieces of Miss Austen’s humour and of her +faculty of character-creation--masterpieces who may indeed admit John +Thorpe, the Eltons, Mrs. Norris, and one or two others to their company, +but who, in one instance certainly, and perhaps in others, are still +superior to them._ + +_The characteristics of Miss Austen’s humour are so subtle and delicate +that they are, perhaps, at all times easier to apprehend than to +express, and at any particular time likely to be differently +apprehended by different persons. To me this humour seems to possess a +greater affinity, on the whole, to that of Addison than to any other of +the numerous species of this great British genus. The differences of +scheme, of time, of subject, of literary convention, are, of course, +obvious enough; the difference of sex does not, perhaps, count for much, +for there was a distinctly feminine element in “Mr. Spectator,” and in +Jane Austen’s genius there was, though nothing mannish, much that was +masculine. But the likeness of quality consists in a great number of +common subdivisions of quality--demureness, extreme minuteness of touch, +avoidance of loud tones and glaring effects. Also there is in both a +certain not inhuman or unamiable cruelty. It is the custom with those +who judge grossly to contrast the good nature of Addison with the +savagery of Swift, the mildness of Miss Austen with the boisterousness +of Fielding and Smollett, even with the ferocious practical jokes that +her immediate predecessor, Miss Burney, allowed without very much +protest. Yet, both in Mr. Addison and in Miss Austen there is, though a +restrained and well-mannered, an insatiable and ruthless delight in +roasting and cutting up a fool. A man in the early eighteenth century, +of course, could push this taste further than a lady in the early +nineteenth; and no doubt Miss Austen’s principles, as well as her heart, +would have shrunk from such things as the letter from the unfortunate +husband in the_ Spectator, _who describes, with all the gusto and all the +innocence in the world, how his wife and his friend induce him to play +at blind-man’s-buff. But another_ Spectator _letter--that of the damsel +of fourteen who wishes to marry Mr. Shapely, and assures her selected +Mentor that “he admires your_ Spectators _mightily”--might have been +written by a rather more ladylike and intelligent Lydia Bennet in the +days of Lydia’s great-grandmother; while, on the other hand, some (I +think unreasonably) have found “cynicism” in touches of Miss Austen’s +own, such as her satire of Mrs. Musgrove’s self-deceiving regrets over +her son. But this word “cynical” is one of the most misused in the +English language, especially when, by a glaring and gratuitous +falsification of its original sense, it is applied, not to rough and +snarling invective, but to gentle and oblique satire. If cynicism means +the perception of “the other side,” the sense of “the accepted hells +beneath,” the consciousness that motives are nearly always mixed, and +that to seem is not identical with to be--if this be cynicism, then +every man and woman who is not a fool, who does not care to live in a +fool’s paradise, who has knowledge of nature and the world and life, is +a cynic. And in that sense Miss Austen certainly was one. She may even +have been one in the further sense that, like her own Mr. Bennet, she +took an epicurean delight in dissecting, in displaying, in setting at +work her fools and her mean persons. I think she did take this delight, +and I do not think at all the worse of her for it as a woman, while she +was immensely the better for it as an artist._ + +_In respect of her art generally, Mr. Goldwin Smith has truly observed +that “metaphor has been exhausted in depicting the perfection of it, +combined with the narrowness of her field;” and he has justly added that +we need not go beyond her own comparison to the art of a miniature +painter. To make this latter observation quite exact we must not use the +term miniature in its restricted sense, and must think rather of Memling +at one end of the history of painting and Meissonier at the other, than +of Cosway or any of his kind. And I am not so certain that I should +myself use the word “narrow” in connection with her. If her world is a +microcosm, the cosmic quality of it is at least as eminent as the +littleness. She does not touch what she did not feel herself called to +paint; I am not so sure that she could not have painted what she did not +feel herself called to touch. It is at least remarkable that in two very +short periods of writing--one of about three years, and another of not +much more than five--she executed six capital works, and has not left a +single failure. It is possible that the romantic paste in her +composition was defective: we must always remember that hardly +anybody born in her decade--that of the eighteenth-century +seventies--independently exhibited the full romantic quality. Even Scott +required hill and mountain and ballad, even Coleridge metaphysics and +German to enable them to chip the classical shell. Miss Austen was an +English girl, brought up in a country retirement, at the time when +ladies went back into the house if there was a white frost which might +pierce their kid shoes, when a sudden cold was the subject of the +gravest fears, when their studies, their ways, their conduct were +subject to all those fantastic limits and restrictions against which +Mary Wollstonecraft protested with better general sense than particular +taste or judgment. Miss Austen, too, drew back when the white frost +touched her shoes; but I think she would have made a pretty good journey +even in a black one._ + +_For if her knowledge was not very extended, she knew two things which +only genius knows. The one was humanity, and the other was art. On the +first head she could not make a mistake; her men, though limited, are +true, and her women are, in the old sense, “absolute.” As to art, if she +has never tried idealism, her realism is real to a degree which makes +the false realism of our own day look merely dead-alive. Take almost any +Frenchman, except the late M. de Maupassant, and watch him laboriously +piling up strokes in the hope of giving a complete impression. You get +none; you are lucky if, discarding two-thirds of what he gives, you can +shape a real impression out of the rest. But with Miss Austen the +myriad, trivial, unforced strokes build up the picture like magic. +Nothing is false; nothing is superfluous. When (to take the present book +only) Mr. Collins changed his mind from Jane to Elizabeth “while Mrs. +Bennet was stirring the fire” (and we know_ how _Mrs. Bennet would have +stirred the fire), when Mr. Darcy “brought his coffee-cup back_ +himself,” _the touch in each case is like that of Swift--“taller by the +breadth of my nail”--which impressed the half-reluctant Thackeray with +just and outspoken admiration. Indeed, fantastic as it may seem, I +should put Miss Austen as near to Swift in some ways, as I have put her +to Addison in others._ + +_This Swiftian quality appears in the present novel as it appears +nowhere else in the character of the immortal, the ineffable Mr. +Collins. Mr. Collins is really_ great; _far greater than anything Addison +ever did, almost great enough for Fielding or for Swift himself. It has +been said that no one ever was like him. But in the first place,_ he +_was like him; he is there--alive, imperishable, more real than hundreds +of prime ministers and archbishops, of “metals, semi-metals, and +distinguished philosophers.” In the second place, it is rash, I think, +to conclude that an actual Mr. Collins was impossible or non-existent at +the end of the eighteenth century. It is very interesting that we +possess, in this same gallery, what may be called a spoiled first +draught, or an unsuccessful study of him, in John Dashwood. The +formality, the under-breeding, the meanness, are there; but the portrait +is only half alive, and is felt to be even a little unnatural. Mr. +Collins is perfectly natural, and perfectly alive. In fact, for all the +“miniature,” there is something gigantic in the way in which a certain +side, and more than one, of humanity, and especially eighteenth-century +humanity, its Philistinism, its well-meaning but hide-bound morality, +its formal pettiness, its grovelling respect for rank, its materialism, +its selfishness, receives exhibition. I will not admit that one speech +or one action of this inestimable man is incapable of being reconciled +with reality, and I should not wonder if many of these words and actions +are historically true._ + +_But the greatness of Mr. Collins could not have been so satisfactorily +exhibited if his creatress had not adjusted so artfully to him the +figures of Mr. Bennet and of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The latter, like +Mr. Collins himself, has been charged with exaggeration. There is, +perhaps, a very faint shade of colour for the charge; but it seems to me +very faint indeed. Even now I do not think that it would be impossible +to find persons, especially female persons, not necessarily of noble +birth, as overbearing, as self-centred, as neglectful of good manners, +as Lady Catherine. A hundred years ago, an earl’s daughter, the Lady +Powerful (if not exactly Bountiful) of an out-of-the-way country parish, +rich, long out of marital authority, and so forth, had opportunities of +developing these agreeable characteristics which seldom present +themselves now. As for Mr. Bennet, Miss Austen, and Mr. Darcy, and even +Miss Elizabeth herself, were, I am inclined to think, rather hard on him +for the “impropriety” of his conduct. His wife was evidently, and must +always have been, a quite irreclaimable fool; and unless he had shot her +or himself there was no way out of it for a man of sense and spirit but +the ironic. From no other point of view is he open to any reproach, +except for an excusable and not unnatural helplessness at the crisis of +the elopement, and his utterances are the most acutely delightful in the +consciously humorous kind--in the kind that we laugh with, not at--that +even Miss Austen has put into the mouth of any of her characters. It is +difficult to know whether he is most agreeable when talking to his wife, +or when putting Mr. Collins through his paces; but the general sense of +the world has probably been right in preferring to the first rank his +consolation to the former when she maunders over the entail, “My dear, +do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. +Let us flatter ourselves that_ I _may be the survivor;” and his inquiry +to his colossal cousin as to the compliments which Mr. Collins has just +related as made by himself to Lady Catherine, “May I ask whether these +pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the +result of previous study?” These are the things which give Miss Austen’s +readers the pleasant shocks, the delightful thrills, which are felt by +the readers of Swift, of Fielding, and we may here add, of Thackeray, as +they are felt by the readers of no other English author of fiction +outside of these four._ + +_The goodness of the minor characters in_ Pride and Prejudice _has been +already alluded to, and it makes a detailed dwelling on their beauties +difficult in any space, and impossible in this. Mrs. Bennet we have +glanced at, and it is not easy to say whether she is more exquisitely +amusing or more horribly true. Much the same may be said of Kitty and +Lydia; but it is not every author, even of genius, who would have +differentiated with such unerring skill the effects of folly and +vulgarity of intellect and disposition working upon the common +weaknesses of woman at such different ages. With Mary, Miss Austen has +taken rather less pains, though she has been even more unkind to her; +not merely in the text, but, as we learn from those interesting +traditional appendices which Mr. Austen Leigh has given us, in dooming +her privately to marry “one of Mr. Philips’s clerks.” The habits of +first copying and then retailing moral sentiments, of playing and +singing too long in public, are, no doubt, grievous and criminal; but +perhaps poor Mary was rather the scapegoat of the sins of blue stockings +in that Fordyce-belectured generation. It is at any rate difficult not +to extend to her a share of the respect and affection (affection and +respect of a peculiar kind; doubtless), with which one regards Mr. +Collins, when she draws the moral of Lydia’s fall. I sometimes wish +that the exigencies of the story had permitted Miss Austen to unite +these personages, and thus at once achieve a notable mating and soothe +poor Mrs. Bennet’s anguish over the entail._ + +_The Bingleys and the Gardiners and the Lucases, Miss Darcy and Miss de +Bourgh, Jane, Wickham, and the rest, must pass without special comment, +further than the remark that Charlotte Lucas (her egregious papa, though +delightful, is just a little on the thither side of the line between +comedy and farce) is a wonderfully clever study in drab of one kind, and +that Wickham (though something of Miss Austen’s hesitation of touch in +dealing with young men appears) is a not much less notable sketch in +drab of another. Only genius could have made Charlotte what she is, yet +not disagreeable; Wickham what he is, without investing him either with +a cheap Don Juanish attractiveness or a disgusting rascality. But the +hero and the heroine are not tints to be dismissed._ + +_Darcy has always seemed to me by far the best and most interesting of +Miss Austen’s heroes; the only possible competitor being Henry Tilney, +whose part is so slight and simple that it hardly enters into +comparison. It has sometimes, I believe, been urged that his pride is +unnatural at first in its expression and later in its yielding, while +his falling in love at all is not extremely probable. Here again I +cannot go with the objectors. Darcy’s own account of the way in which +his pride had been pampered, is perfectly rational and sufficient; and +nothing could be, psychologically speaking, a_ causa verior _for its +sudden restoration to healthy conditions than the shock of Elizabeth’s +scornful refusal acting on a nature_ ex hypothesi _generous. Nothing in +even our author is finer and more delicately touched than the change of +his demeanour at the sudden meeting in the grounds of Pemberley. Had he +been a bad prig or a bad coxcomb, he might have been still smarting +under his rejection, or suspicious that the girl had come +husband-hunting. His being neither is exactly consistent with the +probable feelings of a man spoilt in the common sense, but not really +injured in disposition, and thoroughly in love. As for his being in +love, Elizabeth has given as just an exposition of the causes of that +phenomenon as Darcy has of the conditions of his unregenerate state, +only she has of course not counted in what was due to her own personal +charm._ + +_The secret of that charm many men and not a few women, from Miss Austen +herself downwards, have felt, and like most charms it is a thing rather +to be felt than to be explained. Elizabeth of course belongs to the_ +allegro _or_ allegra _division of the army of Venus. Miss Austen was +always provokingly chary of description in regard to her beauties; and +except the fine eyes, and a hint or two that she had at any rate +sometimes a bright complexion, and was not very tall, we hear nothing +about her looks. But her chief difference from other heroines of the +lively type seems to lie first in her being distinctly clever--almost +strong-minded, in the better sense of that objectionable word--and +secondly in her being entirely destitute of ill-nature for all her +propensity to tease and the sharpness of her tongue. Elizabeth can give +at least as good as she gets when she is attacked; but she never +“scratches,” and she never attacks first. Some of the merest +obsoletenesses of phrase and manner give one or two of her early +speeches a slight pertness, but that is nothing, and when she comes to +serious business, as in the great proposal scene with Darcy (which is, +as it should be, the climax of the interest of the book), and in the +final ladies’ battle with Lady Catherine, she is unexceptionable. Then +too she is a perfectly natural girl. She does not disguise from herself +or anybody that she resents Darcy’s first ill-mannered personality with +as personal a feeling. (By the way, the reproach that the ill-manners of +this speech are overdone is certainly unjust; for things of the same +kind, expressed no doubt less stiltedly but more coarsely, might have +been heard in more than one ball-room during this very year from persons +who ought to have been no worse bred than Darcy.) And she lets the +injury done to Jane and the contempt shown to the rest of her family +aggravate this resentment in the healthiest way in the world._ + +_Still, all this does not explain her charm, which, taking beauty as a +common form of all heroines, may perhaps consist in the addition to her +playfulness, her wit, her affectionate and natural disposition, of a +certain fearlessness very uncommon in heroines of her type and age. +Nearly all of them would have been in speechless awe of the magnificent +Darcy; nearly all of them would have palpitated and fluttered at the +idea of proposals, even naughty ones, from the fascinating Wickham. +Elizabeth, with nothing offensive, nothing_ viraginous, _nothing of the +“New Woman” about her, has by nature what the best modern (not “new”) +women have by education and experience, a perfect freedom from the idea +that all men may bully her if they choose, and that most will away with +her if they can. Though not in the least “impudent and mannish grown,” +she has no mere sensibility, no nasty niceness about her. The form of +passion common and likely to seem natural in Miss Austen’s day was so +invariably connected with the display of one or the other, or both of +these qualities, that she has not made Elizabeth outwardly passionate. +But I, at least, have not the slightest doubt that she would have +married Darcy just as willingly without Pemberley as with it, and +anybody who can read between lines will not find the lovers’ +conversations in the final chapters so frigid as they might have looked +to the Della Cruscans of their own day, and perhaps do look to the Della +Cruscans of this._ + +_And, after all, what is the good of seeking for the reason of +charm?--it is there. There were better sense in the sad mechanic +exercise of determining the reason of its absence where it is not. In +the novels of the last hundred years there are vast numbers of young +ladies with whom it might be a pleasure to fall in love; there are at +least five with whom, as it seems to me, no man of taste and spirit can +help doing so. Their names are, in chronological order, Elizabeth +Bennet, Diana Vernon, Argemone Lavington, Beatrix Esmond, and Barbara +Grant. I should have been most in love with Beatrix and Argemone; I +should, I think, for mere occasional companionship, have preferred Diana +and Barbara. But to live with and to marry, I do not know that any one +of the four can come into competition with Elizabeth._ + +_GEORGE SAINTSBURY._ + + + + +[Illustration: List of Illustrations.] + + + PAGE + +Frontispiece iv + +Title-page v + +Dedication vii + +Heading to Preface ix + +Heading to List of Illustrations xxv + +Heading to Chapter I. 1 + +“He came down to see the place” 2 + +Mr. and Mrs. Bennet 5 + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” 6 + +“I’m the tallest” 9 + +“He rode a black horse” 10 + +“When the party entered” 12 + +“She is tolerable” 15 + +Heading to Chapter IV. 18 + +Heading to Chapter V. 22 + +“Without once opening his lips” 24 + +Tailpiece to Chapter V. 26 + +Heading to Chapter VI. 27 + +“The entreaties of several” 31 + +“A note for Miss Bennet” 36 + +“Cheerful prognostics” 40 + +“The apothecary came” 43 + +“Covering a screen” 45 + +“Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest girls” 53 + +Heading to Chapter X. 60 + +“No, no; stay where you are” 67 + +“Piling up the fire” 69 + +Heading to Chapter XII. 75 + +Heading to Chapter XIII. 78 + +Heading to Chapter XIV. 84 + +“Protested that he never read novels” 87 + +Heading to Chapter XV. 89 + +Heading to Chapter XVI. 95 + +“The officers of the ----shire” 97 + +“Delighted to see their dear friend again” 108 + +Heading to Chapter XVIII. 113 + +“Such very superior dancing is not often seen” 118 + +“To assure you in the most animated language” 132 + +Heading to Chapter XX. 139 + +“They entered the breakfast-room” 143 + +Heading to Chapter XXI. 146 + +“Walked back with them” 148 + +Heading to Chapter XXII. 154 + +“So much love and eloquence” 156 + +“Protested he must be entirely mistaken” 161 + +“Whenever she spoke in a low voice” 166 + +Heading to Chapter XXIV. 168 + +Heading to Chapter XXV. 175 + +“Offended two or three young ladies” 177 + +“Will you come and see me?” 181 + +“On the stairs” 189 + +“At the door” 194 + +“In conversation with the ladies” 198 + +“Lady Catherine,” said she, “you have given me a treasure” 200 + +Heading to Chapter XXX. 209 + +“He never failed to inform them” 211 + +“The gentlemen accompanied him” 213 + +Heading to Chapter XXXI. 215 + +Heading to Chapter XXXII. 221 + +“Accompanied by their aunt” 225 + +“On looking up” 228 + +Heading to Chapter XXXIV. 235 + +“Hearing herself called” 243 + +Heading to Chapter XXXVI. 253 + +“Meeting accidentally in town” 256 + +“His parting obeisance” 261 + +“Dawson” 263 + +“The elevation of his feelings” 267 + +“They had forgotten to leave any message” 270 + +“How nicely we are crammed in!” 272 + +Heading to Chapter XL. 278 + +“I am determined never to speak of it again” 283 + +“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” 285 + +“Tenderly flirting” 290 + +The arrival of the Gardiners 294 + +“Conjecturing as to the date” 301 + +Heading to Chapter XLIV. 318 + +“To make herself agreeable to all” 321 + +“Engaged by the river” 327 + +Heading to Chapter XLVI. 334 + +“I have not an instant to lose” 339 + +“The first pleasing earnest of their welcome” 345 + +The Post 359 + +“To whom I have related the affair” 363 + +Heading to Chapter XLIX. 368 + +“But perhaps you would like to read it” 370 + +“The spiteful old ladies” 377 + +“With an affectionate smile” 385 + +“I am sure she did not listen” 393 + +“Mr. Darcy with him” 404 + +“Jane happened to look round” 415 + +“Mrs. Long and her nieces” 420 + +“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you” 422 + +Heading to Chapter LVI. 431 + +“After a short survey” 434 + +“But now it comes out” 442 + +“The efforts of his aunt” 448 + +“Unable to utter a syllable” 457 + +“The obsequious civility” 466 + +Heading to Chapter LXI. 472 + +The End 476 + + + + +[Illustration: ·PRIDE AND PREJUDICE· + + + + +Chapter I.] + + +It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession +of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. + +However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his +first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds +of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful +property of some one or other of their daughters. + +“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that +Netherfield Park is let at last?” + +Mr. Bennet replied that he had not. + +“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she +told me all about it.” + +Mr. Bennet made no answer. + +“Do not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently. + +“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.” + +[Illustration: + +“He came down to see the place” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +This was invitation enough. + +“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken +by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came +down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much +delighted with it that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is +to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be +in the house by the end of next week.” + +“What is his name?” + +“Bingley.” + +“Is he married or single?” + +“Oh, single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or +five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!” + +“How so? how can it affect them?” + +“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome? You +must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.” + +“Is that his design in settling here?” + +“Design? Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he +_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as +soon as he comes.” + +“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go--or you may send +them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for as you are +as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the +party.” + +“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but +I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five +grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.” + +“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.” + +“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into +the neighbourhood.” + +“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.” + +“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would +be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, +merely on that account; for in general, you know, they visit no new +comers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to visit +him, if you do not.” + +“You are over scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very +glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my +hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls--though +I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.” + +“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the +others: and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so +good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.” + +“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he: “they are +all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of +quickness than her sisters.” + +“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take +delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.” + +“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They +are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration +these twenty years at least.” + +“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.” + +“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four +thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.” + +“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not +visit them.” + +“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them +all.” + +Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, +reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had +been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind +was less difficult to develope. She was a woman of mean understanding, +little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she +fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her +daughters married: its solace was visiting and news. + +[Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.} Bennet + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +[Illustration: + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He +had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his +wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was +paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following +manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he +suddenly addressed her with,-- + +“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.” + +“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother, +resentfully, “since we are not to visit.” + +“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the +assemblies, and that Mrs. Long has promised to introduce him.” + +“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces +of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion +of her.” + +“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do +not depend on her serving you.” + +Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply; but, unable to contain +herself, began scolding one of her daughters. + +“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for heaven’s sake! Have a little +compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.” + +“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times +them ill.” + +“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty, fretfully. “When +is your next ball to be, Lizzy?” + +“To-morrow fortnight.” + +“Ay, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back till +the day before; so, it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for +she will not know him herself.” + +“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce +Mr. Bingley to _her_.” + +“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him +myself; how can you be so teasing?” + +“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is certainly +very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a +fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture, somebody else will; and after +all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore, +as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I +will take it on myself.” + +The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense, +nonsense!” + +“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do +you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on +them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you, +Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read +great books, and make extracts.” + +Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. + +“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr. +Bingley.” + +“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife. + +“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did you not tell me so before? If I +had known as much this morning, I certainly would not have called on +him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we +cannot escape the acquaintance now.” + +The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished--that of Mrs. +Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though when the first tumult of joy +was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the +while. + +“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should +persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to +neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a +good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning, and never said a +word about it till now.” + +“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and, +as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife. + +“What an excellent father you have, girls,” said she, when the door was +shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; +or me either, for that matter. At our time of life, it is not so +pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but +for your sakes we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ +the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next +ball.” + +“Oh,” said Lydia, stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the +youngest, I’m the tallest.” + +The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would +return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should ask him to +dinner. + +[Illustration: “I’m the tallest”] + + + + +[Illustration: + + “He rode a black horse” +] + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +[Illustration] + +Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five +daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her +husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him +in various ways, with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and +distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all; and they were at +last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, +Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been +delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely +agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly +with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of +dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively +hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained. + +“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,” +said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well +married, I shall have nothing to wish for.” + +In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat about ten +minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being +admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard +much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more +fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining, from an upper +window, that he wore a blue coat and rode a black horse. + +An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards despatched; and already had +Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her +housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley +was obliged to be in town the following day, and consequently unable to +accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite +disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town +so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that +he might always be flying about from one place to another, and never +settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a +little by starting the idea of his + +[Illustration: + + “When the Party entered” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a +report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and +seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a +number of ladies; but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing +that, instead of twelve, he had brought only six with him from London, +his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the +assembly-room, it consisted of only five altogether: Mr. Bingley, his +two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man. + +Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike: he had a pleasant +countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, +with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely +looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention +of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and +the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after +his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen +pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was +much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great +admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust +which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be +proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his +large estate in Derbyshire could save him from having a most forbidding, +disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his +friend. + +Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal +people in the room: he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, +was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one +himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for +themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced +only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being +introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in +walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. +His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in +the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. +Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of +his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his +having slighted one of her daughters. + +Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit +down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been +standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between him and +Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his +friend to join it. + +“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you +standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better +dance.” + +“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am +particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this, it +would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not +another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to +stand up with.” + +“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a +kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my +life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, +uncommonly pretty.” + +“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. +Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet. + +“Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one +of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I +dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.” + +[Illustration: + +“She is tolerable” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at +Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said, +“She is tolerable: but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; and I am in no +humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted +by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her +smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” + +Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth +remained with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story, +however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, +playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous. + +The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. +Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield +party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been +distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her +mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane’s +pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most +accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been +fortunate enough to be never without partners, which was all that they +had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good +spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they +were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a +book, he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a +good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised +such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that all his wife’s +views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found that he +had a very different story to hear. + +“Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most +delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. +Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well +she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with +her twice. Only think of _that_, my dear: he actually danced with her +twice; and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second +time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand +up with her; but, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody +can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going +down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and +asked her for the two next. Then, the two third he danced with Miss +King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane +again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_----” + +“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently, +“he would not have danced half so much! For God’s sake, say no more of +his partners. O that he had sprained his ancle in the first dance!” + +“Oh, my dear,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “I am quite delighted with him. He +is so excessively handsome! and his sisters are charming women. I never +in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the +lace upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown----” + +Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any +description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch +of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit, and some +exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy. + +“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not +suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at +all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited, that there was no enduring +him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very +great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my +dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +[Illustration] + +When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in +her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much +she admired him. + +“He is just what a young-man ought to be,” said she, “sensible, +good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners! so much ease, +with such perfect good breeding!” + +“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought +likewise to be if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.” + +“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I +did not expect such a compliment.” + +“Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference between +us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What +could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help +seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in +the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is +very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a +stupider person.” + +“Dear Lizzy!” + +“Oh, you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. +You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable +in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in my life.” + +“I would wish not to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak +what I think.” + +“I know you do: and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_ +good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of +others! Affectation of candour is common enough; one meets with it +everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design,--to take the +good of everybody’s character and make it still better, and say nothing +of the bad,--belongs to you alone. And so, you like this man’s sisters, +too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.” + +“Certainly not, at first; but they are very pleasing women when you +converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep +his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming +neighbour in her.” + +Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced: their behaviour at +the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more +quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and +with a judgment, too, unassailed by any attention to herself, she was +very little disposed to approve them. They were, in fact, very fine +ladies; not deficient in good-humour when they were pleased, nor in the +power of being agreeable where they chose it; but proud and conceited. +They were rather handsome; had been educated in one of the first private +seminaries in town; had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds; were in the +habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people +of rank; and were, therefore, in every respect entitled to think well of +themselves and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in +the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their +memories than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been +acquired by trade. + +Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred +thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, +but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and +sometimes made choice of his county; but, as he was now provided with a +good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those +who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the +remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to +purchase. + +His sisters were very anxious for his having an estate of his own; but +though he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no +means unwilling to preside at his table; nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had +married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider +his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of +age two years when he was tempted, by an accidental recommendation, to +look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it, for half an +hour; was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied +with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately. + +Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of a +great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the +easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition +could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he +never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley +had the firmest reliance, and of his judgment the highest opinion. In +understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means +deficient; but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, +reserved, and fastidious; and his manners, though well bred, were not +inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley +was sure of being liked wherever he appeared; Darcy was continually +giving offence. + +The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently +characteristic. Bingley had never met with pleasanter people or prettier +girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; +there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted +with all the room; and as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel +more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people +in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had +felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or +pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty; but she smiled too +much. + +Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so; but still they admired +her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom +they should not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore +established as a sweet girl; and their brother felt authorized by such +commendation to think of her as he chose. + + + + +[Illustration: [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +[Illustration] + +Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets +were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade +in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the +honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The +distinction had, perhaps, been felt too strongly. It had given him a +disgust to his business and to his residence in a small market town; +and, quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about +a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge; where he +could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by +business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, +though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the +contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, +friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James’s had made him +courteous. + +Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a +valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest +of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was +Elizabeth’s intimate friend. + +That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a +ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly +brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate. + +“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet, with civil +self-command, to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.” + +“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.” + +“Oh, you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be +sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed, I rather believe he +_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something +about Mr. Robinson.” + +“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson: did not +I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton +assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty +women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his +answering immediately to the last question, ‘Oh, the eldest Miss Bennet, +beyond a doubt: there cannot be two opinions on that point.’” + +“Upon my word! Well, that was very decided, indeed--that does seem as +if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.” + +“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said +Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, +is he? Poor Eliza! to be only just _tolerable_.” + +“I beg you will not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his +ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man that it would be quite +a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he +sat close to her for half an hour without once opening his lips.” + +[Illustration: “Without once opening his lips” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Are you quite sure, ma’am? Is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. +“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.” + +“Ay, because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he +could not help answering her; but she said he seemed very angry at being +spoke to.” + +“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much unless +among his intimate acquaintance. With _them_ he is remarkably +agreeable.” + +“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very +agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it +was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had +heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had to come +to the ball in a hack chaise.” + +“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I +wish he had danced with Eliza.” + +“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_, +if I were you.” + +“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.” + +“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride +often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so +very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, +should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_ +to be proud.” + +“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive +_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.” + +“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her +reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have +ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human +nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us +who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some +quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different +things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be +proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of +ourselves; vanity to what we would have others think of us.” + +“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his +sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of +foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine every day.” + +“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. +Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle +directly.” + +The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she +would; and the argument ended only with the visit. + +[Illustration] + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +[Illustration] + +The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit +was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the +good-will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was +found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, +a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards the +two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest +pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of +everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; +though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value, as arising, +in all probability, from the influence of their brother’s admiration. It +was generally evident, whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and +to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference +which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a +way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it +was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane +united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and an +uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the +suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend, Miss +Lucas. + +“It may, perhaps, be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose +on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be +so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill +from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and +it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the +dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every +attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all +_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are +very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without +encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show _more_ +affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he +may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.” + +“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can +perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to +discover it too.” + +“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.” + +“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal +it, he must find it out.” + +“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane +meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they +always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that +every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should +therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his +attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling +in love as much as she chooses.” + +“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in +question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined +to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But +these are not Jane’s feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet she +cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its +reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four +dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, +and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite +enough to make her understand his character.” + +“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might +only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must +remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four +evenings may do a great deal.” + +“Yes: these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both +like Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with respect to any other +leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.” + +“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if +she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a +chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a +twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If +the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or +ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the +least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to +have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as +possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your +life.” + +“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not +sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.” + +Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attention to her sister, Elizabeth +was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some +interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely +allowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the +ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no +sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had +hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered +uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To +this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had +detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry +in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and +pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those +of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of +this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was only the man who made +himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough +to dance with. + +He began to wish to know more of her; and, as a step towards conversing +with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so +drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were +assembled. + +“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my +conversation with Colonel Forster?” + +“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.” + +“But if he does it any more, I shall certainly let him know that I see +what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by +being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.” + +[Illustration: “The entreaties of several” [_Copyright 1894 by George +Allen._]] + +On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have +any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such +a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she +turned to him and said,-- + +“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well +just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at +Meryton?” + +“With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady +energetic.” + +“You are severe on us.” + +“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going +to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” + +“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me +to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a +musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would +really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of +hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, +she added, “Very well; if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing +at Mr. Darcy, “There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is +of course familiar with--‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge,’--and +I shall keep mine to swell my song.” + +Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song +or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she +would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her +sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in +the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always +impatient for display. + +Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her +application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited +manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she +had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with +much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the +end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by +Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with +some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in +dancing at one end of the room. + +Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of +passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too +much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas +was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:-- + +“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is +nothing like dancing, after all. I consider it as one of the first +refinements of polished societies.” + +“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst +the less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance.” + +Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he +continued, after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt +not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.” + +“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.” + +“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do +you often dance at St. James’s?” + +“Never, sir.” + +“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?” + +“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.” + +“You have a house in town, I conclude?” + +Mr. Darcy bowed. + +“I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself, for I am fond of +superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of +London would agree with Lady Lucas.” + +He paused in hopes of an answer: but his companion was not disposed to +make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was +struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to +her,-- + +“My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow +me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You +cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.” +And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though +extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly +drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,-- + +“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you +not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.” + +Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of +her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at +all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion. + +“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me +the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the +amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us +for one half hour.” + +“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling. + +“He is, indeed: but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we +cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a +partner?” + +Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured +her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some +complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,-- + +“I can guess the subject of your reverie.” + +“I should imagine not.” + +“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many +evenings in this manner,--in such society; and, indeed, I am quite of +your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the +noise--the nothingness, and yet the self-importance, of all these +people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!” + +“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more +agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure +which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.” + +Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he +would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. +Mr. Darcy replied, with great intrepidity,-- + +“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” + +“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. +How long has she been such a favourite? and pray when am I to wish you +joy?” + +“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s +imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love +to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.” + +“Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as +absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and +of course she will be always at Pemberley with you.” + +He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to +entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her +that all was safe, her wit flowed along. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “A note for Miss Bennet” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two +thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, +in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother’s +fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply +the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and +had left her four thousand pounds. + +She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their +father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in +London in a respectable line of trade. + +The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most +convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted +thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt, and +to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, +Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions: +their minds were more vacant than their sisters’, and when nothing +better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning +hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and, however bare of +news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn +some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both +with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in +the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was +the head-quarters. + +Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting +intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the +officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, +and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips +visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity +unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. +Bingley’s large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their +mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of +an ensign. + +After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. +Bennet coolly observed,-- + +“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two +of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but +I am now convinced.” + +Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect +indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and +her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the +next morning to London. + +“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so +ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly +of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own, however.” + +“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.” + +“Yes; but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.” + +“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I +had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must +so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly +foolish.” + +“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of +their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will +not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I +liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my +heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, +should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought +Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William’s in +his regimentals.” + +“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain +Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson’s as they did when they first +came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke’s library.” + +Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a +note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited +for an answer. Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was +eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,-- + +“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, +Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.” + +“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud. + + /* NIND “My dear friend, */ + + “If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and + me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our + lives; for a whole day’s _tête-à-tête_ between two women can never + end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of + this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. + Yours ever, + +“CAROLINE BINGLEY.” + +“With the officers!” cried Lydia: “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of +_that_.” + +“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet; “that is very unlucky.” + +“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane. + +“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to +rain; and then you must stay all night.” + +“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that +they would not offer to send her home.” + +“Oh, but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley’s chaise to go to Meryton; +and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.” + +“I had much rather go in the coach.” + +“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are +wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?” + +[Illustration: Cheerful prognostics] + +“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.” + +“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother’s purpose +will be answered.” + +She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses +were engaged; Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her +mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad +day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it +rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was +delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; +Jane certainly could not come back. + +“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet, more than +once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next +morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her +contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield +brought the following note for Elizabeth:-- + + /* NIND “My dearest Lizzie, */ + + “I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be + imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will + not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on + my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear + of his having been to me--and, excepting a sore throat and a + headache, there is not much the matter with me. + +“Yours, etc.” + +“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note +aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she +should die--it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of +Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.” + +“Oh, I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little +trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays +there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the +carriage.” + +Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, determined to go to her, though the +carriage was not to be had: and as she was no horsewoman, walking was +her only alternative. She declared her resolution. + +“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a +thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get +there.” + +“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.” + +“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the +horses?” + +“No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing, +when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.” + +“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every +impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, +exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.” + +“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia. +Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off +together. + +“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may +see something of Captain Carter, before he goes.” + +In Meryton they parted: the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one +of the officers’ wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing +field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing +over puddles, with impatient activity, and finding herself at last +within view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face +glowing with the warmth of exercise. + +She was shown into the breakfast parlour, where all but Jane were +assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. +That she should have walked three miles so early in the day in such +dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and +Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt +for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their +brother’s manners there was something better than politeness--there was +good-humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst +nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the +brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion and doubt as to +the occasion’s justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was +thinking only of his breakfast. + +Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss +Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well +enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her +immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving +alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed +for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, +however, to much conversation; and when Miss Bingley left them together, +could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the +extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended +her. + +When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth +began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and +solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came; and having +examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a +violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; +advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice +was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head +ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were +the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact +nothing to do elsewhere. + +When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very +unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only +wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern +at parting with her that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer +of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the +present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was +despatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring +back a supply of clothes. + +[Illustration: + +“The Apothecary came” +] + + + + +[Illustration: + +“covering a screen” +] + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +[Illustration] + +At five o’clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six +Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then +poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the +much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley, she could not make a very +favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing +this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how +shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked +being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their +indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored +Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike. + +Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could +regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his +attentions to herself most pleasing; and they prevented her feeling +herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the +others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was +engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. +Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to +eat, drink, and play at cards, who, when he found her prefer a plain +dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her. + +When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley +began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were +pronounced to be very bad indeed,--a mixture of pride and impertinence: +she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst +thought the same, and added,-- + +“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent +walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really +looked almost wild.” + +“She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very +nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the +country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowzy!” + +“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep +in mud, I am absolutely certain, and the gown which had been let down to +hide it not doing its office.” + +“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was +all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well +when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite +escaped my notice.” + +“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am +inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such +an exhibition.” + +“Certainly not.” + +“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, +above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by +it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, +a most country-town indifference to decorum.” + +“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said +Bingley. + +“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, +“that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine +eyes.” + +“Not at all,” he replied: “they were brightened by the exercise.” A +short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again,-- + +“I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet,--she is really a very sweet +girl,--and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such +a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no +chance of it.” + +“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in +Meryton?” + +“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.” + +“That is capital,” added her sister; and they both laughed heartily. + +“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it +would not make them one jot less agreeable.” + +“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any +consideration in the world,” replied Darcy. + +To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their +hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of +their dear friend’s vulgar relations. + +With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on +leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. +She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till +late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and +when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go +down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room, she found the whole +party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting +them to be playing high, she declined it, and making her sister the +excuse, said she would amuse herself, for the short time she could stay +below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. + +“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.” + +“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great +reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.” + +“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I +am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.” + +“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and +I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.” + +Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table +where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her +others; all that his library afforded. + +“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own +credit; but I am an idle fellow; and though I have not many, I have more +than I ever looked into.” + +Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those +in the room. + +“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left +so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at +Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” + +“It ought to be good,” he replied: “it has been the work of many +generations.” + +“And then you have added so much to it yourself--you are always buying +books.” + +“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as +these.” + +“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of +that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be +half as delightful as Pemberley.” + +“I wish it may.” + +“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that +neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a +finer county in England than Derbyshire.” + +“With all my heart: I will buy Pemberley itself, if Darcy will sell it.” + +“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.” + +“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get +Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.” + +Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little +attention for her book; and, soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near +the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest +sister, to observe the game. + +“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley: “will +she be as tall as I am?” + +“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or +rather taller.” + +“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me +so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished +for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.” + +“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience +to be so very accomplished as they all are.” + +“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” + +“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and +net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this; and I am +sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without +being informed that she was very accomplished.” + +“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has +too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no +otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen; but I am very +far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I +cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen in the whole range of my +acquaintance that are really accomplished.” + +“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley. + +“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your +idea of an accomplished woman.” + +“Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.” + +“Oh, certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really +esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met +with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, +dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and, besides all +this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of +walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word +will be but half deserved.” + +“All this she must possess,” added Darcy; “and to all she must yet add +something more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive +reading.” + +“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. +I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.” + +“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all +this?” + +“_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and +application, and elegance, as you describe, united.” + +Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her +implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who +answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with +bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all +conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the +room. + +“Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, “is +one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other +sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I daresay, it +succeeds; but, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.” + +“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, +“there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend +to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is +despicable.” + +Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to +continue the subject. + +Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and +that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones’s being sent for +immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could +be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most +eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so +unwilling to comply with their brother’s proposal; and it was settled +that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet +were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters +declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, +however, by duets after supper; while he could find no better relief to +his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every +possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. + + + + +[Illustration: + +M^{rs} Bennet and her two youngest girls + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister’s room, and in the +morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the +inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, +and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his +sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a +note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her +own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately despatched, and +its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her +two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. + +Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been +very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was +not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her +restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She +would not listen, therefore, to her daughter’s proposal of being carried +home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think +it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss +Bingley’s appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all +attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes +that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. + +“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be +moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass +a little longer on your kindness.” + +“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am +sure, will not hear of her removal.” + +“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, +“that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she +remains with us.” + +Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. + +“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends, I do not +know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a +vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is +always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest +temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to +_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect +over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is +equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I +hope, though you have but a short lease.” + +“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I +should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five +minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.” + +“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth. + +“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her. + +“Oh yes--I understand you perfectly.” + +“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen +through, I am afraid, is pitiful.” + +“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, +intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.” + +“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in +the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” + +“I did not know before,” continued Bingley, immediately, “that you were +a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.” + +“Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at +least that advantage.” + +“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but few subjects for +such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and +unvarying society.” + +“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be +observed in them for ever.” + +“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a +country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_ +going on in the country as in town.” + +Everybody was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, +turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete +victory over him, continued her triumph,-- + +“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for +my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal +pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?” + +“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and +when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their +advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.” + +“Ay, that is because you have the right disposition. But that +gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing +at all.” + +“Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her +mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not +such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which +you must acknowledge to be true.” + +“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with +many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few +neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.” + +Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his +countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards +Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of +saying something that might turn her mother’s thoughts, now asked her if +Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away. + +“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir +William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so +genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_ +is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very +important and never open their mouths quite mistake the matter.” + +“Did Charlotte dine with you?” + +“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For +my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own +work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to +judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I +assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think +Charlotte so _very_ plain; but then she is our particular friend.” + +“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley. + +“Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself +has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast +of my own child; but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody +better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own +partiality. When she was only fifteen there was a gentleman at my +brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my +sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. +But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he +wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.” + +“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth, impatiently. “There has +been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first +discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” + +“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy. + +“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is +strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I +am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” + +Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth +tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to +speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. +Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to +Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was +unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be +civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part, +indeed, without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and +soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of +her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to +each other during the whole visit; and the result of it was, that the +youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming +into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. + +Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion +and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose +affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high +animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the +attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and her +own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was +very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the +ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be +the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer +to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear. + +“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when +your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of +the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill?” + +Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh yes--it would be much better to +wait till Jane was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter +would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she +added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel +Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.” + +Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned +instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations’ behaviour to the +remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, +could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of +all Miss Bingley’s witticisms on _fine eyes_. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +[Illustration] + +The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss +Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who +continued, though slowly, to mend; and, in the evening, Elizabeth joined +their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. +Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching +the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by +messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and +Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. + +Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in +attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual +commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness +of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern +with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was +exactly in unison with her opinion of each. + +“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” + +He made no answer. + +“You write uncommonly fast.” + +“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” + +“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a +year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!” + +“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.” + +“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.” + +“I have already told her so once, by your desire.” + +“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend +pens remarkably well.” + +“Thank you--but I always mend my own.” + +“How can you contrive to write so even?” + +He was silent. + +“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, +and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful +little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss +Grantley’s.” + +“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At +present I have not room to do them justice.” + +“Oh, it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you +always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?” + +“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me +to determine.” + +“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with +ease cannot write ill.” + +“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her +brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much +for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?” + +“My style of writing is very different from yours.” + +“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way +imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.” + +“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which +means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.” + +“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.” + +“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of +humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an +indirect boast.” + +“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?” + +“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in +writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of +thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you +think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with +quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any +attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. +Bennet this morning, that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield +you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of +panegyric, of compliment to yourself; and yet what is there so very +laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business +undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?” + +“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the +foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I +believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this +moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless +precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.” + +“I daresay you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you +would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as +dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were +mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay +till next week,’ you would probably do it--you would probably not +go--and, at another word, might stay a month.” + +“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did +not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much +more than he did himself.” + +“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my +friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am +afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means +intend; for he would certainly think the better of me if, under such a +circumstance, I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I +could.” + +“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention +as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?” + +“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter--Darcy must speak for +himself.” + +“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, +but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to +stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, +that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and +the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering +one argument in favour of its propriety.” + +“To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit +with you.” + +“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of +either.” + +“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of +friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make +one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason +one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have +supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the +circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour +thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases, between friend and friend, +where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no +very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying +with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?” + +“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange +with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to +appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting +between the parties?” + +“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not +forgetting their comparative height and size, for that will have more +weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure +you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with +myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not +know a more awful object than Darcy on particular occasions, and in +particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, +when he has nothing to do.” + +Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was +rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly +resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her +brother for talking such nonsense. + +“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, +and want to silence this.” + +“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss +Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very +thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.” + +“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. +Darcy had much better finish his letter.” + +Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter. + +When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth +for the indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to +the pianoforte, and after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the +way, which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she +seated herself. + +Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister; and while they were thus employed, +Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books +that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed +on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of +admiration to so great a man, and yet that he should look at her because +he disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, +at last, that she drew his notice because there was something about her +more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in +any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked +him too little to care for his approbation. + +After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a +lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near +Elizabeth, said to her,-- + +“Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an +opportunity of dancing a reel?” + +She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some +surprise at her silence. + +“Oh,” said she, “I heard you before; but I could not immediately +determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ +that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always +delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of +their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell +you that I do not want to dance a reel at all; and now despise me if you +dare.” + +“Indeed I do not dare.” + +Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his +gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her +manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody, and Darcy had +never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really +believed that, were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he +should be in some danger. + +Miss Bingley saw, or suspected, enough to be jealous; and her great +anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some +assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth. + +She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of +their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance. + +“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the +next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this +desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; +and if you can compass it, to cure the younger girls of running after +the officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to +check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, +which your lady possesses.” + +[Illustration: + + “No, no; stay where you are” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?” + +“Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed +in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the +judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different +lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it +taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?” + +“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their +colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be +copied.” + +At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and +Elizabeth herself. + +“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some +confusion, lest they had been overheard. + +“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without +telling us that you were coming out.” + +Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk +by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, +and immediately said,-- + +“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the +avenue.” + +But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, +laughingly answered,-- + +“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to +uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a +fourth. Good-bye.” + +She then ran gaily off, rejoicing, as she rambled about, in the hope of +being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered +as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Piling up the fire” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +[Illustration] + +When the ladies removed after dinner Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and +seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, +where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of +pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were +during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers +of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment +with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their +acquaintance with spirit. + +But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; +Miss Bingley’s eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had +something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed +himself directly to Miss Bennet with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst +also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness +and warmth remained for Bingley’s salutation. He was full of joy and +attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she +should suffer from the change of room; and she removed, at his desire, +to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be farther from the +door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. +Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great +delight. + +When tea was over Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the +card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. +Darcy did not wish for cards, and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open +petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the +silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. +Hurst had, therefore, nothing to do but to stretch himself on one of the +sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book. Miss Bingley did the same; +and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and +rings, joined now and then in her brother’s conversation with Miss +Bennet. + +Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. +Darcy’s progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was +perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She +could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her +question and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be +amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the +second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it +is to spend an evening in this way! I declare, after all, there is no +enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a +book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not +an excellent library.” + +No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and +cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when, hearing +her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly +towards him and said,-- + +“By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at +Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult +the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not +some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a +pleasure.” + +“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he +chooses, before it begins; but as for the ball, it is quite a settled +thing, and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send +round my cards.” + +“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were +carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably +tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much +more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the +day.” + +“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be +near so much like a ball.” + +Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards got up and walked about +the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at +whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the +desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more; and, +turning to Elizabeth, said,-- + +“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a +turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so +long in one attitude.” + +Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley +succeeded no less in the real object of her civility: Mr. Darcy looked +up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as +Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was +directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that +he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down +the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would +interfere. What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his +meaning--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him. + +“Not at all,” was her answer; “but, depend upon it, he means to be +severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask +nothing about it.” + +Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in +anything, and persevered, therefore, in requiring an explanation of his +two motives. + +“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon +as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing +the evening because you are in each other’s confidence, and have secret +affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures +appear to the greatest advantage in walking: if the first, I should be +completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better +as I sit by the fire.” + +“Oh, shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so +abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?” + +“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We +can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate +as you are, you must know how it is to be done.” + +“But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not +yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, +no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose +ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. +Darcy may hug himself.” + +“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an +uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would +be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a +laugh.” + +“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me credit for more than can be. The +wisest and best of men,--nay, the wisest and best of their actions,--may +be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a +joke.” + +“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am +not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies +and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own, and I +laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what +you are without.” + +“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of +my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong +understanding to ridicule.” + +“Such as vanity and pride.” + +“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real +superiority of mind--pride will be always under good regulation.” + +Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. + +“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley; +“and pray what is the result?” + +“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it +himself without disguise.” + +“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, +but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch +for. It is, I believe, too little yielding; certainly too little for the +convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of +others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My +feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper +would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost for +ever.” + +“_That_ is a failing, indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment +_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I +really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.” + +“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular +evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.” + +“And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate everybody.” + +“And yours,” he replied, with a smile, “is wilfully to misunderstand +them.” + +“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a +conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my +waking Mr. Hurst.” + +Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was +opened; and Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for +it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +[Illustration] + +In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the +next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for +them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on +her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which +would exactly finish Jane’s week, could not bring herself to receive +them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at +least not to Elizabeth’s wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. +Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage +before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley +and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very +well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively +resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the +contrary, of being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, +she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at +length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield +that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. + +The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was +said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on +Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was +then sorry that she had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike +of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. + +The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so +soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be +safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where +she felt herself to be right. + +To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence: Elizabeth had been at +Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked; and Miss +Bingley was uncivil to _her_ and more teasing than usual to himself. He +wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration +should _now_ escape him--nothing that could elevate her with the hope of +influencing his felicity; sensible that, if such an idea had been +suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight +in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke +ten words to her through the whole of Saturday: and though they were at +one time left by themselves for half an hour, he adhered most +conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her. + +On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost +all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last +very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, +after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to +see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most +tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of +the whole party in the liveliest spirits. + +They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet +wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much +trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their +father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really +glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The +evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its +animation, and almost all its sense, by the absence of Jane and +Elizabeth. + +They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough bass and human +nature; and had some new extracts to admire and some new observations of +threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information +for them of a different sort. Much had been done, and much had been said +in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers +had dined lately with their uncle; a private had been flogged; and it +had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +[Illustration] + +“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at +breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, +because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.” + +“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, +unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in; and I hope _my_ dinners +are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.” + +“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger.” + +Mrs. Bennet’s eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. +Bingley, I am sure. Why, Jane--you never dropped a word of this--you sly +thing! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. +But--good Lord! how unlucky! there is not a bit of fish to be got +to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell. I must speak to Hill this +moment.” + +“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I +never saw in the whole course of my life.” + +This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being +eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at once. + +After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus +explained:--“About a month ago I received this letter, and about a +fortnight ago I answered it; for I thought it a case of some delicacy, +and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, +when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he +pleases.” + +“Oh, my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. +Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing +in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own +children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago +to do something or other about it.” + +Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail. +They had often attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs. +Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail +bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of +five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about. + +“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet; “and +nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. +But if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little +softened by his manner of expressing himself.” + +“No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of +him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false +friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father +did before him?” + +“Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that +head, as you will hear.” + + /* RIGHT “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, _15th October_. */ + +“Dear Sir, + + “The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured + father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the + misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the + breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts, + fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be + on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be + at variance.”--‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’--“My mind, however, is now + made up on the subject; for, having received ordination at Easter, + I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of + the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis + de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the + valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest + endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her + Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies + which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, + moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing + of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on + these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures of + good-will are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my + being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly + overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered + olive branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the + means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to + apologize for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make + them every possible amends; but of this hereafter. If you should + have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself + the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, + November 18th, by four o’clock, and shall probably trespass on your + hospitality till the Saturday se’nnight following, which I can do + without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting + to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other + clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day. I remain, dear sir, + with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your + well-wisher and friend, + +“WILLIAM COLLINS.” + +“At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” +said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most +conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will +prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so +indulgent as to let him come to us again.” + +“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however; and, if +he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to +discourage him.” + +“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean +to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his +credit.” + +Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary deference for Lady +Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying +his parishioners whenever it were required. + +“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him out. There +is something very pompous in his style. And what can he mean by +apologizing for being next in the entail? We cannot suppose he would +help it, if he could. Can he be a sensible man, sir?” + +“No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the +reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his +letter which promises well. I am impatient to see him.” + +“In point of composition,” said Mary, “his letter does not seem +defective. The idea of the olive branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I +think it is well expressed.” + +To Catherine and Lydia neither the letter nor its writer were in any +degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should +come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had +received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for +their mother, Mr. Collins’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, +and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which +astonished her husband and daughters. + +Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great +politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the +ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need +of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, +heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and +stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated +before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of +daughters, said he had heard much of their beauty, but that, in this +instance, fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not +doubt her seeing them all in due time well disposed of in marriage. This +gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. +Bennet, who quarrelled with no compliments, answered most readily,-- + +“You are very kind, sir, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may +prove so; for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so +oddly.” + +“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.” + +“Ah, sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you +must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things, +I know, are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates +will go when once they come to be entailed.” + +“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and +could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing +forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come +prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more, but, perhaps, +when we are better acquainted----” + +He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each +other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins’s admiration. The +hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; +and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet’s +heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his +own future property. The dinner, too, in its turn, was highly admired; +and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellence of its +cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured +him, with some asperity, that they were very well able to keep a good +cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged +pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared +herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologize for about a +quarter of an hour. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +[Illustration] + +During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants +were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his +guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to +shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady +Catherine de Bourgh’s attention to his wishes, and consideration for his +comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen +better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him +to more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect +he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a +person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself +experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to +approve of both the discourses which he had already had the honour of +preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, +and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of +quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many +people, he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her. +She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she +made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the +neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or +two to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to +marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had +once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly +approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed +to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets upstairs. + +“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and I +dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies +in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?” + +“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane +from Rosings Park, her Ladyship’s residence.” + +“I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?” + +“She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very +extensive property.” + +“Ah,” cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than +many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?” + +“She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says +that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the +handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks +the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly +constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many +accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of, as I am +informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still +resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends +to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.” + +“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at +court.” + +“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; +and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived +the British Court of its brightest ornament. Her Ladyship seemed pleased +with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to +offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to +ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her +charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess; and that the most +elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by +her. These are the kind of little things which please her Ladyship, and +it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to +pay.” + +“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet; “and it is happy for you +that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask +whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the +moment, or are the result of previous study?” + +“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time; and though I +sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant +compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to +give them as unstudied an air as possible.” + +Mr. Bennet’s expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd +as he had hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, +maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, +and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner +in his pleasure. + +By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad +to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, +glad to invite him + +[Illustration: + +“Protested +that he never read novels” H.T Feb 94 +] + +to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book +was produced; but on beholding it (for everything announced it to be +from a circulating library) he started back, and, begging pardon, +protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia +exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he +chose “Fordyce’s Sermons.” Lydia gaped as he opened the volume; and +before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she +interrupted him with,-- + +“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away +Richard? and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me +so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more +about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.” + +Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. +Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said,-- + +“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books +of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes +me, I confess; for certainly there can be nothing so advantageous to +them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.” + +Then, turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at +backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted +very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. +Bennet and her daughters apologized most civilly for Lydia’s +interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would +resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his +young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any +affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared +for backgammon. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had +been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of +his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and +miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he +had merely kept the necessary terms without forming at it any useful +acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had +given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good +deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in +retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected +prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de +Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he +felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, +mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a +clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of +pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. + +Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to +marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had +a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found +them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. +This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father’s +estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and +suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own +part. + +His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet’s lovely face +confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what +was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled +choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter +of an hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a +conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally +to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at +Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general +encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to +her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could +not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her +_eldest_ daughter she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to +hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.” + +Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon +done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally +next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course. + +Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have +two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of +the day before, was now high in her good graces. + +Lydia’s intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten: every sister +except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, +at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, +and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed +him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with +one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. +Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such +doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been +always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told +Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the +house, he was used to be free from them there: his civility, therefore, +was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their +walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker +than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and +go. + +In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his +cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of +the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes +were immediately wandering up the street in quest of the officers, and +nothing less than a very smart bonnet, indeed, or a really new muslin in +a shop window, could recall them. + +But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom +they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking +with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very +Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and +he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all +wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible +to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of wanting +something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the +pavement, when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same +spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to +introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day +before from town, and, he was happy to say, had accepted a commission in +their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted +only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was +greatly in his favour: he had all the best parts of beauty, a fine +countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction +was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a +readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the +whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, +when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were +seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group +the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual +civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the +principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on +purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and +was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they +were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger; and Elizabeth +happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, +was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, +one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, +touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. +What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was +impossible not to long to know. + +In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what +passed, took leave and rode on with his friend. + +Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of +Mr. Philips’s house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia’s +pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs. +Philips’s throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the +invitation. + +Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from +their recent absence, were particularly welcome; and she was eagerly +expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own +carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if +she had not happened to see Mr. Jones’s shopboy in the street, who had +told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield, +because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed +towards Mr. Collins by Jane’s introduction of him. She received him with +her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, +apologizing for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with +her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be +justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to +her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good +breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to +by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she +could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had +brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant’s +commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour, +she said, as he walked up and down the street,--and had Mr. Wickham +appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation; +but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the +officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, +disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the +next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. +Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn +would come in the evening. This was agreed to; and Mrs. Philips +protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery +tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such +delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. +Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured, +with unwearying civility, that they were perfectly needless. + +As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass +between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or +both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such +behaviour than her sister. + +Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. +Philips’s manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady +Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for +she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even +pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although +utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be +attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so +much attention in the whole course of his life. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +[Illustration] + +As no objection was made to the young people’s engagement with their +aunt, and all Mr. Collins’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for +a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach +conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the +girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, +that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle’s invitation, and was then in +the house. + +When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. +Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much +struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he +might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour +at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much +gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings +was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the +description of only one of Lady Catherine’s drawing-rooms, and found +that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all +the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison +with the housekeeper’s room. + +In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, +with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the +improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the +gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive +listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she +heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as +soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, +and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine +their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantel-piece, the +interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. +The gentlemen did approach: and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, +Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking +of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The +officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable, +gentlemanlike set and the best of them were of the present party; but +Mr, Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and +walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, +breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. + +[Illustration: + +“The officers of the ----shire” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was +turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated +himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into +conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the +probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, +dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the +skill of the speaker. + +With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the +officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young +ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind +listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly +supplied with coffee and muffin. + +When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her, +in return, by sitting down to whist. + +“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad to +improve myself; for in my situation of life----” Mrs. Philips was very +thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. + +Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he +received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there +seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most +determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, +she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets +and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for anyone in particular. +Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore +at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, +though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, +the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even +mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly +relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far +Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in +a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. + +“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject +drop, added, “he is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I +understand.” + +“Yes,” replied Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten +thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of +giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been +connected with his family, in a particular manner, from my infancy.” + +Elizabeth could not but look surprised. + +“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after +seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting +yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?” + +“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth, warmly. “I have spent +four days in the same house with him, and I think him very +disagreeable.” + +“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being +agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him +too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to +be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general +astonish--and, perhaps, you would not express it quite so strongly +anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.” + +“Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the +neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in +Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find +him more favourably spoken of by anyone.” + +“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short +interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond +their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The +world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his +high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.” + +“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an +ill-tempered man.” + +Wickham only shook his head. + +“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is +likely to be in this country much longer.” + +“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I +was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will +not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.” + +“Oh no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ +wishes to avoid seeing _me_ he must go. We are not on friendly terms, +and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for +avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world--a sense of +very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. +His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men +that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be +in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a +thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been +scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and +everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the +memory of his father.” + +Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with +all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry. + +Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the +neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he +had yet seen, and speaking of the latter, especially, with gentle but +very intelligible gallantry. + +“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added, +“which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I know it to be a +most respectable, agreeable corps; and my friend Denny tempted me +further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great +attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. +Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and +my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. +A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have +now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I +was brought up for the church; and I should at this time have been in +possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we +were speaking of just now.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best +living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. +I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, +and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given +elsewhere.” + +“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his +will be disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress?” + +“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to +give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the +intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely +conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim +to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, anything or nothing. +Certain it is that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I +was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no +less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done +anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm unguarded temper, and I +may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too +freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very +different sort of men, and that he hates me.” + +“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.” + +“Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I +can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.” + +Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than +ever as he expressed them. + +“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? what can +have induced him to behave so cruelly?” + +“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but +attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me +less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father’s uncommon +attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had +not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort +of preference which was often given me.” + +“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked +him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be +despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of +descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as +this!” + +After a few minutes’ reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_ +remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of +his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition +must be dreadful.” + +“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “_I_ can +hardly be just to him.” + +Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To +treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his +father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very +countenance may vouch for your being amiable.” But she contented herself +with--“And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from +childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest +manner.” + +“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest +part of our youth was passed together: inmates of the same house, +sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ +father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, +appears to do so much credit to; but he gave up everything to be of use +to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the +Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most +intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to +be under the greatest obligations to my father’s active superintendence; +and when, immediately before my father’s death, Mr. Darcy gave him a +voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it +to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_ as of affection to myself.” + +“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very +pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better +motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for +dishonesty I must call it.” + +“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham; “for almost all his actions may be +traced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has +connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none +of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me there were stronger +impulses even than pride.” + +“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?” + +“Yes; it has often led him to be liberal and generous; to give his money +freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the +poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his +father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to +degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the +Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, +which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and +careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up +as the most attentive and best of brothers.” + +“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?” + +He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to +speak ill of a Darcy; but she is too much like her brother,--very, very +proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond +of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is +nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, +and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death her +home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her +education.” + +After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not +help reverting once more to the first, and saying,-- + +“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley, +who seems good-humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, +be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you +know Mr. Bingley?” + +“Not at all.” + +“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. +Darcy is.” + +“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not +want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth +his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a +very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride +never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, +sincere, rational, honourable, and, perhaps, agreeable,--allowing +something for fortune and figure.” + +The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round +the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin +Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. The usual inquiries as to his success were +made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; +but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured +her, with much earnest gravity, that it was not of the least importance; +that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not +make herself uneasy. + +“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a +card table they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I +am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There +are, undoubtedly, many who could not say the same; but, thanks to Lady +Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding +little matters.” + +Mr. Wickham’s attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for +a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relations +were very intimately acquainted with the family of De Bourgh. + +“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him a +living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her +notice, but he certainly has not known her long.” + +“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy +were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.” + +“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine’s +connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before +yesterday.” + +“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is +believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.” + +This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss +Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her +affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already +self-destined to another. + +“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her +daughter; but, from some particulars that he has related of her +Ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him; and that, in spite of +her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.” + +“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have +not seen her for many years; but I very well remember that I never liked +her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the +reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe +she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from +her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who +chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of +the first class.” + +Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and +they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put +an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. +Wickham’s attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of +Mrs. Philips’s supper party, but his manners recommended him to +everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done +gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could +think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all +the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as +they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia +talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the +fish she had won; and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and +Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses +at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing +that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage +before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “delighted to see their dear friend again” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth related to Jane, the next day, what had passed between Mr. +Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern: she +knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. +Bingley’s regard; and yet it was not in her nature to question the +veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The +possibility of his having really endured such unkindness was enough to +interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be +done but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and +throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be +otherwise explained. + +“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or +other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps +misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to +conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, +without actual blame on either side.” + +“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in +behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the +business? Do clear _them_, too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of +somebody.” + +“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my +opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light +it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite in such a +manner,--one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is +impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his +character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so +excessively deceived in him? Oh no.” + +“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley’s being imposed on than that +Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last +night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not +so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.” + +“It is difficult, indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to +think.” + +“I beg your pardon;--one knows exactly what to think.” + +But Jane could think with certainty on only one point,--that Mr. +Bingley, if he _had been_ imposed on, would have much to suffer when +the affair became public. + +The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this +conversation passed, by the arrival of some of the very persons of whom +they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their +personal invitation for the long expected ball at Netherfield, which was +fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see +their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and +repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their +separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; +avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, +and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from +their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and +hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities. + +The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every +female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in +compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by +receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a +ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the +society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and +Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. +Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy’s look +and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended +less on any single event, or any particular person; for though they +each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, +he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball +was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she +had no disinclination for it. + +“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough. I +think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. +Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who +consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for +everybody.” + +Elizabeth’s spirits were so high on the occasion, that though she did +not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking +him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he +did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s +amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no +scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke, +either from the Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to +dance. + +“I am by no means of opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of +this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can +have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing +myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair +cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of +soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially; a +preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right +cause, and not to any disrespect for her.” + +Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being +engaged by Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins +instead!--her liveliness had been never worse timed. There was no help +for it, however. Mr. Wickham’s happiness and her own was perforce +delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins’s proposal accepted with as +good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his +gallantry, from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first +struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy of +being the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a +quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. +The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing +civilities towards herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a +compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than +gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before +her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage +was exceedingly agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose +to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the +consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and, +till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him. + +If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the +younger Miss Bennets would have been in a pitiable state at this time; +for, from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball, there was +such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No +aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after; the very shoe-roses +for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some +trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement +of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on +Tuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday +endurable to Kitty and Lydia. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in +vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a +doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of +meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that +might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than +usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all +that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than +might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the +dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted, for Mr. Darcy’s +pleasure, in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this +was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was +pronounced by his friend Mr. Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and +who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business +the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant +smile,-- + +“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if +he had not wished to avoid a certain gentleman here.” + +This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by +Elizabeth; and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for +Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling +of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate +disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to +the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. +Attention, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She +was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away +with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in +speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her. + +But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect +of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her +spirits; and, having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she +had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary +transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her +particular notice. The two first dances, however, brought a return of +distress: they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and +solemn, apologizing instead of attending, and often moving wrong +without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a +disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her +release from him was ecstasy. + +She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of +Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances +were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with +her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took +her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without +knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again +immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of +mind: Charlotte tried to console her. + +“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.” + +“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find +a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an +evil.” + +When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her +hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a +simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant +in the eyes of a man often times his consequence. Elizabeth made no +answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which +she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and +reading in her neighbours’ looks their equal amazement in beholding it. +They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to +imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and, at +first, was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it +would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, +she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again +silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time, +with-- + +“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. _I_ talked about the +dance, and _you_ ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the +room, or the number of couples.” + +He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be +said. + +“Very well; that reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by-and-by, I +may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones; but +_now_ we may be silent.” + +“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?” + +“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be +entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet, for the advantage of +_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the +trouble of saying as little as possible.” + +“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you +imagine that you are gratifying mine?” + +“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great +similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, +taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say +something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to +posterity with all the _éclat_ of a proverb.” + +“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” +said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_ +think it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.” + +“I must not decide on my own performance.” + +He made no answer; and they were again silent till they had gone down +the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often +walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative; and, unable to resist +the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just +been forming a new acquaintance.” + +The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his +features, but he said not a word; and Elizabeth, though blaming herself +for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a +constrained manner said,-- + +“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure his +_making_ friends; whether he may be equally capable of _retaining_ them, +is less certain.” + +“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, +with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all +his life.” + +Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At +that moment Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass +through the set to the other side of the room; but, on perceiving Mr. +Darcy, he stopped, with a bow of superior courtesy, to compliment him on +his dancing and his partner. + +“I have been most highly gratified, indeed, my dear sir; such very +superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the +first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not +disgrace you: and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, +especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza (glancing +at her sister and Bingley), shall take place. What congratulations will +then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy;--but let me not interrupt you, sir. +You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of +that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” + +[Illustration: + +“Such very superior dancing is not +often seen.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir +William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his +eyes were directed, with a very serious expression, towards Bingley and +Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, +he turned to his partner, and said,-- + +“Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking +of.” + +“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have +interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for +themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, +and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.” + +“What think you of books?” said he, smiling. + +“Books--oh no!--I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same +feelings.” + +“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be +no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.” + +“No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of +something else.” + +“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he, +with a look of doubt. + +“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said; for her +thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared +by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, +that you hardly ever forgave;--that your resentment, once created, was +unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being +created_?” + +“I am,” said he, with a firm voice. + +“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?” + +“I hope not.” + +“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, +to be secure of judging properly at first.” + +“May I ask to what these questions tend?” + +“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring +to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.” + +“And what is your success?” + +She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different +accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.” + +“I can readily believe,” answered he, gravely, “that reports may vary +greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were +not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to +fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.” + +“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another +opportunity.” + +“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. +She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in +silence; on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree; for +in Darcy’s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards her, +which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against +another. + +They had not long separated when Miss Bingley came towards her, and, +with an expression of civil disdain, thus accosted her,-- + +“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham? +Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand +questions; and I find that the young man forgot to tell you, among his +other communications, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. +Darcy’s steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give +implicit confidence to all his assertions; for, as to Mr. Darcy’s using +him ill, it is perfectly false: for, on the contrary, he has been always +remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a +most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very +well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame; that he cannot bear +to hear George Wickham mentioned; and that though my brother thought he +could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he +was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. +His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and +I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this +discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his +descent, one could not expect much better.” + +“His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” +said Elizabeth, angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing +worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, and of _that_, I can +assure you, he informed me himself.” + +“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. +“Excuse my interference; it was kindly meant.” + +“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken if +you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see +nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. +Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make +inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of +such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently +marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. +Elizabeth instantly read her feelings; and, at that moment, solicitude +for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave +way before the hope of Jane’s being in the fairest way for happiness. + +“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her +sister’s, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have +been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person, in which case +you may be sure of my pardon.” + +“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing +satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his +history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have +principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, +the probity and honour, of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that +Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has +received; and I am sorry to say that by his account, as well as his +sister’s, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am +afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy’s +regard.” + +“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself.” + +“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.” + +“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am +perfectly satisfied. But what does he say of the living?” + +“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard +them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to +him _conditionally_ only.” + +“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley’s sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly, +“but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. +Bingley’s defence of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but +since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt +the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture still to think of +both gentlemen as I did before.” + +She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on +which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with +delight to the happy though modest hopes which Jane entertained of +Bingley’s regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence +in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew +to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last +partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, +and told her with great exultation, that he had just been so fortunate +as to make a most important discovery. + +“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now +in the room a near relation to my patroness. I happened to overhear the +gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of +this house the names of his cousin Miss De Bourgh, and of her mother, +Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would +have thought of my meeting with--perhaps--a nephew of Lady Catherine de +Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made +in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, +and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total +ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.” + +“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?” + +“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. +I believe him to be Lady Catherine’s _nephew_. It will be in my power to +assure him that her Ladyship was quite well yesterday se’nnight.” + +Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme; assuring him +that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as +an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it +was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either +side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in +consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with +the determined air of following his own inclination, and when she ceased +speaking, replied thus,-- + +“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world of your +excellent judgment in all matters within the scope of your +understanding, but permit me to say that there must be a wide difference +between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity and those +which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider +the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank +in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the +same time maintained. You must, therefore, allow me to follow the +dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which lead me to perform +what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by +your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, +though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education +and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like +yourself;” and with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose +reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at +being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with +a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if +hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology,” +“Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed her to see him +expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with +unrestrained wonder; and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him to speak, +replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not +discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy’s contempt seemed +abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech; and at the +end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way: Mr. +Collins then returned to Elizabeth. + +“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my +reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered +me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying, +that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine’s discernment as to be +certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very +handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.” + +As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned +her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the +train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to made +her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that +very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could +bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring +even to like Bingley’s two sisters. Her mother’s thoughts she plainly +saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, +lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, +she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within +one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was +talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing +else but of her expectation that Jane would be soon married to Mr. +Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable +of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such +a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, +were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a +comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be +certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It +was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as +Jane’s marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; +and, lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to +consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might +not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary +to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such +occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. +Bennet to find comfort in staying at home at any period of her life. She +concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally +fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no +chance of it. + +In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother’s +words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible +whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation she could perceive that the +chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her +mother only scolded her for being nonsensical. + +“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am +sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say +nothing _he_ may not like to hear.” + +“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you +to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by +so doing.” + +Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would +talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and +blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently +glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what +she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was +convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression +of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and +steady gravity. + +At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who +had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no +likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. +Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of +tranquillity; for when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she +had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, +preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent +entreaties did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of +complaisance,--but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an +opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. +Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed on her, with most painful sensations; and +she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience +which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving +amongst the thanks of the table the hint of a hope that she might be +prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute +began another. Mary’s powers were by no means fitted for such a display; +her voice was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. +She looked at Jane to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly +talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making +signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, +impenetrably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his +interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, +and, when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud,-- + +“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. +Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.” + +Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and +Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father’s speech, was afraid +her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to. + +“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I +should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an +air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly +compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, +to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to +music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The +rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such +an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not +offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time +that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care +and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making +as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance +that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards +everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I +cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who +should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody +connected with the family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded +his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the +room. Many stared--many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. +Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for +having spoken so sensibly, and observed, in a half-whisper to Lady +Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man. + +To Elizabeth it appeared, that had her family made an agreement to +expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would +have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit, or +finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister +that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his +feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he +must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should +have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations was bad enough; and +she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or +the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable. + +The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by +Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side; and though he +could not prevail with her to dance with him again, put it out of her +power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with +somebody else, and offered to introduce him to any young lady in the +room. He assured her that, as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent +to it; that his chief object was, by delicate attentions, to recommend +himself to her; and that he should therefore make a point of remaining +close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a +project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who +often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins’s conversation +to herself. + +She was at least free from the offence of Mr. Darcy’s further notice: +though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite +disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the +probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in +it. + +The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart; and by a +manœuvre of Mrs. Bennet had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an +hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how +heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her +sister scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and +were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed +every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and, by so doing, threw a +languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long +speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his +sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and +politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said +nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. +Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together a little detached from the +rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a +silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too +much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, +how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn. + +When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly +civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn; and +addressed herself particularly to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy +he would make them, by eating a family dinner with them at any time, +without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful +pleasure; and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of +waiting on her after his return from London, whither he was obliged to +go the next day for a short time. + +Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied; and quitted the house under the +delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of +settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly +see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four +months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins she thought +with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. +Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the +man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each +was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “to assure you in the most animated language” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + +[Illustration] + +The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his +declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as +his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having +no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the +moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the +observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding +Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon +after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,-- + +“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, +when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the +course of this morning?” + +Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. +Bennet instantly answered,-- + +“Oh dear! Yes, certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am sure +she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs.” And +gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth +called out,-- + +“Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse +me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am +going away myself.” + +“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you will stay where you are.” And +upon Elizabeth’s seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about +to escape, she added, “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing +Mr. Collins.” + +Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction; and a moment’s +consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it +over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried +to conceal, by incessant employment, the feelings which were divided +between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as +soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began,-- + +“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from +doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You +would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little +unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected +mother’s permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport +of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to +dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as +soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my +future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this +subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for +marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design +of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.” + +The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away +with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not +use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and +he continued,-- + +“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for +every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example +of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced it will add +very greatly to my happiness; and, thirdly, which perhaps I ought to +have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and +recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling +patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked +too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I +left Hunsford,--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was +arranging Miss De Bourgh’s footstool,--that she said, ‘Mr. Collins, you +must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a +gentlewoman for _my_ sake, and for your _own_; let her be an active, +useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small +income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as +you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.’ Allow me, by the +way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and +kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the +advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond +anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be +acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect +which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general +intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views +were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I +assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that +being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured +father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy +myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that +the loss to them might be as little as possible when the melancholy +event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be +for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I +flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing +remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the +violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and +shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well +aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds +in the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after your mother’s +decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, +therefore, I shall be uniformly silent: and you may assure yourself that +no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.” + +It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now. + +“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no +answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for +the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of +your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline +them.” + +“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the +hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the +man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their +favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a +third time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have +just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.” + +“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an +extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not +one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so +daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second +time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_ +happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who +would make _you_ so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I +am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the +situation.” + +“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins, +very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her Ladyship would at all +disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of +seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, +economy, and other amiable qualifications.” + +“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must +give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of +believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by +refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. +In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your +feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn +estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be +considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she thus +spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus +addressed her,-- + +“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I +shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given +me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I +know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the +first application, and, perhaps, you have even now said as much to +encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the +female character.” + +“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth, with some warmth, “you puzzle me +exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form +of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as +may convince you of its being one.” + +“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your +refusal of my addresses are merely words of course. My reasons for +believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand +is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would +be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections +with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are +circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further +consideration that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no +means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your +portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood undo the +effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must, +therefore, conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I +shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by +suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.” + +“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind +of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would +rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you +again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but +to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect +forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant +female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the +truth from her heart.” + +“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward +gallantry; “and I am persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express +authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of +being acceptable.” + +To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no +reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, that if he +persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering +encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered +in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could +not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his +successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule +to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the +door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she +entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in +warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins +received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then +proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result +of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the +refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow +from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character. + +This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet: she would have been +glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage +him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, +and could not help saying so. + +“But depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be +brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is +a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but +I will _make_ her know it.” + +“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if she +is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would +altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who +naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore, she +actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to +force her into accepting me, because, if liable to such defects of +temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.” + +“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is +only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as +good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and +we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.” + +She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her +husband, called out, as she entered the library,-- + +“Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. +You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will +not have him; and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and +not have _her_.” + +Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them +on her face with a calm unconcern, which was not in the least altered by +her communication. + +“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had +finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?” + +“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, +and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.” + +“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.” + +“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her +marrying him.” + +“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.” + +Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the +library. + +“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for +you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made +you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” + +Elizabeth replied that it was. + +“Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?” + +“I have, sir.” + +“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your +accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?” + +“Yes, or I will never see her again.” + +“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must +be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you +again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again +if you _do_.” + +Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning; +but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the +affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed. + +“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me +to _insist_ upon her marrying him.” + +“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. +First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the +present occasion; and, secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the +library to myself as soon as may be.” + +Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did +Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; +coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in +her interest, but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined +interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and +sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner +varied, however, her determination never did. + +Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. +He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin +could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other +way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her +deserving her mother’s reproach prevented his feeling any regret. + +While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend +the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to +her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such +fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has +made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.” + +[Illustration: + + “they entered the breakfast room” +] + +Charlotte had hardly time to answer before they were joined by Kitty, +who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the +breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on +the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating +her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of her +family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added, in a melancholy tone; +“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me; I am cruelly used, +nobody feels for my poor nerves.” + +Charlotte’s reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth. + +“Ay, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned as +may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she +can have her own way. But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take it +into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, +you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is +to maintain you when your father is dead. _I_ shall not be able to keep +you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told +you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, +and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking +to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking +to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have +no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it +is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.” + +Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any +attempt to reason with or soothe her would only increase the irritation. +She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till +they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately +than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,-- + +“Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and +let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together.” + +Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but +Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, +detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after +herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little +curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending +not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected +conversation:-- + +“Oh, Mr. Collins!” + +“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point. +Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his +displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to +inevitable evils is the duty of us all: the peculiar duty of a young man +who has been so fortunate as I have been, in early preferment; and, I +trust, I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my +positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I +have often observed, that resignation is never so perfect as when the +blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. +You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your +family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your +daughter’s favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the +compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. +My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my +dismission from your daughter’s lips instead of your own; but we are all +liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. +My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due +consideration for the advantage of all your family; and if my _manner_ +has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologize.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + +[Illustration] + +The discussion of Mr. Collins’s offer was now nearly at an end, and +Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily +attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother. +As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not +by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by +stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to +her; and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of +himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose +civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and +especially to her friend. + +The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet’s ill humour or ill +health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth +had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did +not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on +Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay. + +After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton, to inquire if Mr. Wickham +were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. +He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their +aunt’s, where his regret and vexation and the concern of everybody were +well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged +that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed. + +“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near, that I had better not meet +Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so +many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes +might arise unpleasant to more than myself.” + +She highly approved his forbearance; and they had leisure for a full +discussion of it, and for all the commendations which they civilly +bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with +them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. +His accompanying them was a double advantage: she felt all the +compliment it offered to herself; and it was most acceptable as an +occasion of introducing him to her father and mother. + +[Illustration: “Walked back with them” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came +from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a +sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady’s +fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister’s countenance change as +she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. +Jane recollected herself soon; and putting the letter away, tried to +join, with her usual cheerfulness, in the general conversation: but +Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention +even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, +than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs. When they +had gained their own room, Jane, taking out her letter, said, “This is +from Caroline Bingley: what it contains has surprised me a good deal. +The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way +to town; and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear +what she says.” + +She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information +of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, +and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. +Hurst had a house. The next was in these words:--“‘I do not pretend to +regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire except your society, my +dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many +returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the +meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most +unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.’” To these +high-flown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of +distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she +saw nothing in it really to lament: it was not to be supposed that their +absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley’s being there; and as +to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon +cease to regard it in the enjoyment of his. + +“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be +able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not +hope that the period of future happiness, to which Miss Bingley looks +forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful +intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater +satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by +them.” + +“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into +Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you. + +“‘When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which +took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we +are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when +Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have +determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend +his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are +already there for the winter: I wish I could hear that you, my dearest +friend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I +despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in +the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux +will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of +whom we shall deprive you.’ + +“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this +winter.” + +“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_.” + +“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing; he is his own master. +But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which +particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_. ‘Mr. Darcy is +impatient to see his sister; and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely +less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has +her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection +she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still +more interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being +hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to +you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country +without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them +unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have +frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her +relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister’s +partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most +capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these circumstances to +favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest +Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness +of so many?’ What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said +Jane, as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly +declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; +that she is perfectly convinced of her brother’s indifference; and that +if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him she means (most +kindly!) to put me on my guard. Can there be any other opinion on the +subject?” + +“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?” + +“Most willingly.” + +“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is +in love with you and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to +town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he +does not care about you.” + +Jane shook her head. + +“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you +together can doubt his affection; Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot: she +is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. +Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the +case is this:--we are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she +is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion +that when there has been _one_ inter-marriage, she may have less trouble +in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I +dare say it would succeed if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my +dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that, because Miss Bingley +tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest +degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on +Tuesday; or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead +of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.” + +“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your +representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the +foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving +anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived +herself.” + +“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you +will not take comfort in mine: believe her to be deceived, by all means. +You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.” + +“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in +accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry +elsewhere?” + +“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature +deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is +more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you, +by all means, to refuse him.” + +“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling; “you must know, that, +though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could +not hesitate.” + +“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider +your situation with much compassion.” + +“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be +required. A thousand things may arise in six months.” + +The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost +contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline’s +interested wishes; and she could not for a moment suppose that those +wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man +so totally independent of everyone. + +She represented to her sister, as forcibly as possible, what she felt on +the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. +Jane’s temper was not desponding; and she was gradually led to hope, +though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that +Bingley would return to Netherfield, and answer every wish of her heart. + +They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the +family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman’s conduct; +but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, +and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen +to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After +lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation of +thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again, and soon dining at +Longbourn; and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, +that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take +care to have two full courses. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + +[Illustration] + +The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and again, during the +chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. +Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good +humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.” + +Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and +that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was +very amiable; but Charlotte’s kindness extended farther than Elizabeth +had any conception of:--its object was nothing less than to secure her +from any return of Mr. Collins’s addresses, by engaging them towards +herself. Such was Miss Lucas’s scheme; and appearances were so +favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost +sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. +But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his +character; for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next +morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw +himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, +from a conviction that, if they saw him depart, they could not fail to +conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known +till its success could be known likewise; for, though feeling almost +secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, +he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His +reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas +perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and +instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had +she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. + +In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow, +everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as +they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that +was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must +be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with +his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must +guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its +continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and +disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that +establishment were gained. + +Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; +and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins’s present +circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom +they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were +exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more +interest than the matter had ever + +[Illustration: + + “So much love and eloquence” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and +Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins +should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly +expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. +James’s. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the +occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of _coming out_ a year or two +sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved +from their apprehension of Charlotte’s dying an old maid. Charlotte +herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time +to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. +Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable: his society was +irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would +be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, +marriage had always been her object: it was the only honourable +provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and, however +uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative +from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of +twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good +luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the +surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she +valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and +probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be +shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved +to give her the information herself; and therefore charged Mr. Collins, +when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had +passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very +dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the +curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct +questions on his return, as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was +at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to +publish his prosperous love. + +As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of +the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies +moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and +cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, +whenever his other engagements might allow him to visit them. + +“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly +gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you +may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as +possible.” + +They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for +so speedy a return, immediately said,-- + +“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine’s disapprobation here, my +good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of +offending your patroness.” + +“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you +for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so +material a step without her Ladyship’s concurrence.” + +“You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk anything rather than her +displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us +again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, +and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.” + +“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such +affectionate attention; and, depend upon it, you will speedily receive +from me a letter of thanks for this as well as for every other mark of +your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, +though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall +now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting +my cousin Elizabeth.” + +With proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally +surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished +to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of +her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. +She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others: there was a +solidity in his reflections which often struck her; and though by no +means so clever as herself, she thought that, if encouraged to read and +improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very +agreeable companion. But on the following morning every hope of this +kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a +private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before. + +The possibility of Mr. Collins’s fancying himself in love with her +friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two: but +that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility +as that she could encourage him herself; and her astonishment was +consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and +she could not help crying out,-- + +“Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte, impossible!” + +The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her +story gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a +reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained +her composure, and calmly replied,-- + +“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible +that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman’s good opinion, +because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?” + +But Elizabeth had now recollected herself; and, making a strong effort +for it, was able to assure her, with tolerable firmness, that the +prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she +wished her all imaginable happiness. + +“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte; “you must be surprised, +very much surprised, so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. +But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you will be +satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know. I never +was. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Collins’s +character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my +chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on +entering the marriage state.” + +Elizabeth quietly answered “undoubtedly;” and, after an awkward pause, +they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much +longer; and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It +was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so +unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins’s making two offers +of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now +accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte’s opinion of matrimony was +not exactly like her own; but she could not have supposed it possible +that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better +feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was a +most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing +herself, and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction +that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot +she had chosen. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Protested he must be entirely mistaken.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what +she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it, +when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to +announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, +and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the +houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering, +but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than +politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always +unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,-- + +“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know +that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?” + +Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne +without anger such treatment: but Sir William’s good-breeding carried +him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the +truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the +most forbearing courtesy. + +Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant +a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by +mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and +endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters, +by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she +was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the +happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character +of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London. + +Mrs. Bennet was, in fact, too much overpowered to say a great deal while +Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings +found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving +the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins +had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy +together; and, fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two +inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that +Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that +she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two +points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could +console and nothing appease her. Nor did that day wear out her +resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without +scolding her: a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William +or Lady Lucas without being rude; and many months were gone before she +could at all forgive their daughter. + +Mr. Bennet’s emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such +as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for +it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had +been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and +more foolish than his daughter! + +Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match: but she said +less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; +nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and +Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a +clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news +to spread at Meryton. + +Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on +Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she +called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, +though Mrs. Bennet’s sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been +enough to drive happiness away. + +Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them +mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no +real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her +disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her +sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could +never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as +Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return. + +Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting +the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised +letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their +father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a +twelve-month’s abode in the family might have prompted. After +discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, +with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the +affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained +that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had +been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at +Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; +for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that +she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would +be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early +day for making him the happiest of men. + +Mr. Collins’s return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of +pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to +complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come +to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient +and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house +while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the +most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they +gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley’s continued +absence. + +Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after +day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the +report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to +Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. +Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous +falsehood. + +Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that +his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she +was to admit an idea so destructive to Jane’s happiness, and so +dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its +frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters, +and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss +Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for +the strength of his attachment. + +As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more +painful than Elizabeth’s: but whatever she felt she was desirous of +concealing; and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject +was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an +hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her +impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he +did not come back she should think herself very ill-used. It needed all +Jane’s steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable +tranquillity. + +Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his +reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his +first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; +and, luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them +from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by +him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time +to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed. + +[Illustration: + + “_Whenever she spoke in a low voice_” +] + +Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of +anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and +wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of +Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she +regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see +them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and +whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that +they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself +and her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Bennet was dead. She +complained bitterly of all this to her husband. + +“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte +Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that _I_ should be forced +to make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!” + +“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for +better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor.” + +This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet; and, therefore, instead of +making any answer, she went on as before. + +“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was +not for the entail, I should not mind it.” + +“What should not you mind?” + +“I should not mind anything at all.” + +“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such +insensibility.” + +“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How +anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one’s own +daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins, too! +Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?” + +“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + +[Illustration] + +Miss Bingley’s letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first +sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for +the winter, and concluded with her brother’s regret at not having had +time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left +the country. + +Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of +the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the +writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy’s praise occupied +the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on; and Caroline +boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict +the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former +letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother’s being an +inmate of Mr. Darcy’s house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of +the latter with regard to new furniture. + +Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, +heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern +for her sister and resentment against all others. To Caroline’s +assertion of her brother’s being partial to Miss Darcy, she paid no +credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she +had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she +could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness +of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave +of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice his own happiness to +the caprice of their inclinations. Had his own happiness, however, been +the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in +whatever manner he thought best; but her sister’s was involved in it, as +she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on +which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She +could think of nothing else; and yet, whether Bingley’s regard had +really died away, or were suppressed by his friends’ interference; +whether he had been aware of Jane’s attachment, or whether it had +escaped his observation; whichever were the case, though her opinion of +him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister’s +situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded. + +A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to +Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet’s leaving them together, after a +longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could +not help saying,-- + +“O that my dear mother had more command over herself! she can have no +idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I +will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall +all be as we were before.” + +Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said +nothing. + +“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have no +reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my +acquaintance but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and +nothing to reproach him with. Thank God I have not _that_ pain. A little +time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better----” + +With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, +that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it +has done no harm to anyone but myself.” + +“My dear Jane,” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness +and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to +you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you +deserve.” + +Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back +the praise on her sister’s warm affection. + +“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the +world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. _I_ only want +to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be +afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your +privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people +whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see +of the world the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms +my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the +little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit +or sense. I have met with two instances lately: one I will not mention, +the other is Charlotte’s marriage. It is unaccountable! in every view it +is unaccountable!” + +“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will +ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of +situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins’s respectability, and +Charlotte’s prudent, steady character. Remember that she is one of a +large family; that as to fortune it is a most eligible match; and be +ready to believe, for everybody’s sake, that she may feel something like +regard and esteem for our cousin.” + +“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else +could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that +Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her +understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a +conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man: you know he is, as well as +I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who marries him +cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though +it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, +change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade +yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of +danger security for happiness.” + +“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied +Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it, by seeing them happy +together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You +mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat +you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and +saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy +ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man +to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but +our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than +it does.” + +“And men take care that they should.” + +“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea +of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.” + +“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley’s conduct to design,” +said Elizabeth; “but, without scheming to do wrong, or to make others +unhappy, there may be error and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, +want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, +will do the business.” + +“And do you impute it to either of those?” + +“Yes; to the last. But if I go on I shall displease you by saying what I +think of persons you esteem. Stop me, whilst you can.” + +“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?” + +“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.” + +“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can +only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me no other woman can +secure it.” + +“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his +happiness: they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they +may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great +connections, and pride.” + +“Beyond a doubt they do wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane; +“but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have +known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love +her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely +they should have opposed their brother’s. What sister would think +herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very +objectionable? If they believed him attached to me they would not try to +part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an +affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most +unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been +mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of +what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it +in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.” + +Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s +name was scarcely ever mentioned between them. + +Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no +more; and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account +for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it +with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what +she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely +the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw +her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at +the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best +comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer. + +Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he, one +day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next +to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and +then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction +among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to +be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at +Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham +be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.” + +“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not +all expect Jane’s good fortune.” + +“True,” said Mr. Bennet; “but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of +that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will +always make the most of it.” + +Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom +which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn +family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now +added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already +heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, +was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was +pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they +had known anything of the matter. + +Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any +extenuating circumstances in the case unknown to the society of +Hertfordshire: her mild and steady candour always pleaded for +allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes; but by everybody else +Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + +[Illustration] + +After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. +Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of +Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his +side by preparations for the reception of his bride, as he had reason to +hope, that shortly after his next return into Hertfordshire, the day +would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave +of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished +his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father +another letter of thanks. + +On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her +brother and his wife, who came, as usual, to spend the Christmas at +Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly +superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield +ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by +trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so +well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger +than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Philips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant +woman, and a great favourite with her Longbourn nieces. Between the two +eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a very particular regard. +They had frequently been staying with her in town. + +The first part of Mrs. Gardiner’s business, on her arrival, was to +distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was +done, she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. +Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They +had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her +girls had been on the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing +in it. + +“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr. +Bingley if she could. But, Lizzy! Oh, sister! it is very hard to think +that she might have been Mr. Collins’s wife by this time, had not it +been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, +and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have +a daughter married before I have, and that Longbourn estate is just as +much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people, indeed, +sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of +them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted +so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves +before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the +greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us of +long sleeves.” + +Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in +the course of Jane and Elizabeth’s correspondence with her, made her +sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the +conversation. + +When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. +“It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I +am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, +such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty +girl for a few weeks, and, when accident separates them, so easily +forgets her, that these sort of inconstancies are very frequent.” + +[Illustration: + + “Offended two or three young ladies” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth; “but it will not +do for _us_. We do not suffer by accident. It does not often happen +that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of +independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in +love with only a few days before.” + +“But that expression of ‘violently in love’ is so hackneyed, so +doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as +often applied to feelings which arise only from a half hour’s +acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ +Mr. Bingley’s love?” + +“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite +inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time +they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he +offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I +spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be +finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?” + +“Oh, yes! of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor +Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get +over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you +would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would +be prevailed on to go back with us? Change of scene might be of +service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as +anything.” + +Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded +of her sister’s ready acquiescence. + +“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to +this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of +town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go +out so little, that it is very improbable they should meet at all, +unless he really comes to see her.” + +“And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his +friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a +part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may, +perhaps, have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he +would hardly think a month’s ablution enough to cleanse him from its +impurities, were he once to enter it; and, depend upon it, Mr. Bingley +never stirs without him.” + +“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane +correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.” + +“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.” + +But, in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this +point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley’s being +withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which +convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely +hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that +his affection might be re-animated, and the influence of his friends +successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane’s +attractions. + +Miss Bennet accepted her aunt’s invitation with pleasure; and the +Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time than as she +hoped, by Caroline’s not living in the same house with her brother, she +might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of +seeing him. + +The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Philipses, +the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its +engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment +of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family +dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always +made part of it, of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and +on these occasions Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth’s +warm commendation of him, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing +them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference +of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she +resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left +Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such +an attachment. + +To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, +unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, +before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part +of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many +acquaintance in common; and, though Wickham had been little there since +the death of Darcy’s father, five years before, it was yet in his power +to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been +in the way of procuring. + +Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by +character perfectly well. Here, consequently, was an inexhaustible +subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with +the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her +tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was +delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the +present Mr. Darcy’s treatment of him, she tried to remember something of +that gentleman’s reputed disposition, when quite a lad, which might +agree with it; and was confident, at last, that she recollected having +heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, +ill-natured boy. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Will you come and see me?” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Mrs. Gardiner’s caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on +the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone: after +honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:-- + +“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you +are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking +openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve +yourself, or endeavour to involve him, in an affection which the want of +fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against +_him_: he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he +ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is--you +must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all +expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and +good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.” + +“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.” + +“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.” + +“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of +myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I +can prevent it.” + +“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.” + +“I beg your pardon. I will try again. At present I am not in love with +Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, +the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to +me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence +of it. Oh, _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father’s opinion of me does +me the greatest honour; and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My +father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I +should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but +since we see, every day, that where there is affection young people are +seldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from entering into +engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many +of my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that +it would be wiser to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is +not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his +first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In +short, I will do my best.” + +“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very +often. At least you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.” + +“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth, with a conscious smile; “very +true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine +that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been +so frequently invited this week. You know my mother’s ideas as to the +necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my +honour, I will try to do what I think to be wisest; and now I hope you +are satisfied.” + +Her aunt assured her that she was; and Elizabeth, having thanked her for +the kindness of her hints, they parted,--a wonderful instance of advice +being given on such a point without being resented. + +Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted +by the Gardiners and Jane; but, as he took up his abode with the +Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His +marriage was now fast approaching; and she was at length so far resigned +as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured +tone, that she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the +wedding-day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and +when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother’s +ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, +accompanied her out of the room. As they went down stairs together, +Charlotte said,-- + +“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.” + +“_That_ you certainly shall.” + +“And I have another favour to ask. Will you come and see me?” + +“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.” + +“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to +come to Hunsford.” + +Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the +visit. + +“My father and Maria are to come to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and +I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be +as welcome to me as either of them.” + +The wedding took place: the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from +the church door, and everybody had as much to say or to hear on the +subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend, and their +correspondence was as regular and frequent as it ever had been: that it +should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never +address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over; +and, though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the +sake of what had been rather than what was. Charlotte’s first letters +were received with a good deal of eagerness: there could not but be +curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would +like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to +be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte +expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She +wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing +which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and +roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine’s behaviour was most +friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins’s picture of Hunsford and +Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait +for her own visit there, to know the rest. + +Jane had already written a few lines to her sister, to announce their +safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it +would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys. + +Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience +generally is. Jane had been a week in town, without either seeing or +hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that +her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been +lost. + +“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the +town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.” + +She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. +“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very +glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming +to London. I was right, therefore; my last letter had never reached her. +I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much +engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that +Miss Darcy was expected to dinner: I wish I could see her. My visit was +not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall +soon see them here.” + +Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that +accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister’s being in town. + +Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to +persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be +blind to Miss Bingley’s inattention. After waiting at home every morning +for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the +visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and, yet +more, the alteration of her manner, would allow Jane to deceive herself +no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister +will prove what she felt:-- + + “My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in + her better judgment, at my expense, when I confess myself to have + been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley’s regard for me. But, my + dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me + obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour + was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at + all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but, + if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should + be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; + and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she + did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she + made a slight, formal apology for not calling before, said not a + word of wishing to see me again, and was, in every respect, so + altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly + resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I + cannot help blaming, her. She was very wrong in singling me out as + she did; I can safely say, that every advance to intimacy began on + her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been + acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her + brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and + though _we_ know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she + feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so + deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she may + feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, + however, at her having any such fears now, because if he had at all + cared about me, we must have met long, long ago. He knows of my + being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and + yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to + persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot + understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be + almost tempted to say, that there is a strong appearance of + duplicity in all this. I will endeavour to banish every painful + thought, and think only of what will make me happy, your affection, + and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear + from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never + returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not + with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely + glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at + Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am + sure you will be very comfortable there. + +“Yours, etc.” + +This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned, as she +considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. +All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not +even wish for any renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every +review of it; and, as a punishment for him, as well as a possible +advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. +Darcy’s sister, as, by Wickham’s account, she would make him abundantly +regret what he had thrown away. + +Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise +concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had +such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to +herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, +he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to +see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. +Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied +with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune +permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most +remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself +agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than +in Charlotte’s, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. +Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and, while able to +suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was +ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very +sincerely wish him happy. + +All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and, after relating the +circumstances, she thus went on:--“I am now convinced, my dear aunt, +that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that +pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, +and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial +towards _him_, they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find +out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think +her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My +watchfulness has been effectual; and though I should certainly be a more +interesting object to all my acquaintance, were I distractedly in love +with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. +Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take +his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways +of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that +handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the +plain.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “On the Stairs” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + +[Illustration] + +With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise +diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and +sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take +Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of +going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the +plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater +pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire +of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. +There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such +uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change +was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give +her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have +been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, +and was finally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was +to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of +spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as +perfect as plan could be. + +The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, +and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he +told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter. + +The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on +his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that +Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the +first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner +of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what +she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their +opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there +was a solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to +him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that, +whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable +and pleasing. + +Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think +him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a +good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say +that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much +delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but +she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new of +the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were +worn out, like his information. + +It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early +as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s +door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival: when +they entered the passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, +looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and +lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, +whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to +wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her +for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and +kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and +shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres. + +Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her +sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to +her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her +spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to +hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the +particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and +repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and +herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the +acquaintance. + +Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and +complimented her on bearing it so well. + +“But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I +should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.” + +“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, +between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, +and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, +because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a +girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is +mercenary.” + +“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know +what to think.” + +“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.” + +“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death +made her mistress of this fortune?” + +“No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_ +affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for +making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally +poor?” + +“But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so +soon after this event.” + +“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant +decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it, +why should _we_?” + +“_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being +deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.” + +“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be +mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.” + +“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know, +to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.” + +“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in +Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not +much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow +where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has +neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones +worth knowing, after all.” + +“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.” + +Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the +unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in +a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer. + +“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. +Gardiner; “but perhaps, to the Lakes.” + +No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her +acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear +aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You give me +fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men +to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And +when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other travellers, without +being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We _will_ know where +we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, +and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when +we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling +about its relative situation. Let _our_ first effusions be less +insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “At the door” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Every object in the next day’s journey was new and interesting to +Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had +seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, +and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight. + +When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in +search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. +The paling of Rosings park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth +smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants. + +At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the +road, the house standing in it, the green pales and the laurel hedge, +everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte +appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate, which +led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of +the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing +at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the +liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with +coming, when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw +instantly that her cousin’s manners were not altered by his marriage: +his formal civility was just what it had been; and he detained her some +minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her +family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the +neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were +in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious +formality, to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife’s +offers of refreshment. + +Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help +fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect, +and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if +wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though +everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him +by any sigh of repentance; and rather looked with wonder at her friend, +that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. +Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, +which certainly was not seldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on +Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general +Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire +every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the +fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had +happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the +garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of +which he attended himself. To work in his garden was one of his most +respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance +with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and +owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way +through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an +interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out +with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the +fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in +the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which +the country or the kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with +the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that +bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a +handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground. + +From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; +but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white +frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte +took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, +probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband’s +help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything +was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency, of which +Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be +forgotten, there was really a great air of comfort throughout, and by +Charlotte’s evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often +forgotten. + +She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It +was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining +in, observed,-- + +“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine +de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will +be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I +doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when +service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying that she will +include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she +honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is +charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to +walk home. Her Ladyship’s carriage is regularly ordered for us. I +_should_ say, one of her Ladyship’s carriages, for she has several.” + +“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman, indeed,” added +Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.” + +“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of +woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.” + +The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and +telling again what had been already written; and when it closed, +Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon +Charlotte’s degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, +and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it +was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would +pass, the quiet tenour of their usual employments, the vexatious +interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse +with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all. + +About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready +for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in +confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running +upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened +the door, and met Maria in the landing-place, who, breathless with +agitation, cried out,-- + +[Illustration: + + “In Conversation with the ladies” + +[Copyright 1894 by George Allen.]] + +“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for +there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make +haste, and come down this moment.” + +Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more; +and down they ran into the dining-room which fronted the lane, in quest +of this wonder; it was two ladies, stopping in a low phaeton at the +garden gate. + +“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs +were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her +daughter!” + +“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not Lady +Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them. The +other is Miss De Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little +creature. Who would have thought she could be so thin and small!” + +“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. +Why does she not come in?” + +“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours +when Miss De Bourgh comes in.” + +“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She +looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will +make him a very proper wife.” + +Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation +with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth’s high diversion, was +stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness +before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss De Bourgh looked that +way. + +At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and +the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two +girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which +Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked +to dine at Rosings the next day. + + + + +[Illustration: + + ‘Lady Catherine, said she, you have given me a treasure.’ + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Collins’s triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. +The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering +visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his +wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of +doing it should be given so soon was such an instance of Lady +Catherine’s condescension as he knew not how to admire enough. + +“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by +her Ladyship’s asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening +at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that +it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? +Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine +there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so +immediately after your arrival?” + +“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William, +“from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which +my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such +instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.” + +Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their +visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what +they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and +so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them. + +When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to +Elizabeth,-- + +“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady +Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which +becomes herself and daughter. I would advise you merely to put on +whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion +for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for +being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank +preserved.” + +While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different +doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much +objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of +her Ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas, +who had been little used to company; and she looked forward to her +introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done +to his presentation at St. James’s. + +As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile +across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and +Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such +raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but +slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the +house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally +cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh. + +When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria’s alarm was every moment +increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. +Elizabeth’s courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady +Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or +miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money and rank she +thought she could witness without trepidation. + +From the entrance hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a +rapturous air, the fine proportion and finished ornaments, they followed +the servants through an antechamber to the room where Lady Catherine, +her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her Ladyship, with great +condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it +with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was +performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks +which he would have thought necessary. + +In spite of having been at St. James’s, Sir William was so completely +awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage +enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; +and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge +of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself +quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her +composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked +features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not +conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her +visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by +silence: but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone as +marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to +Elizabeth’s mind; and, from the observation of the day altogether, she +believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he had represented. + +When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment +she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the +daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria’s astonishment at her +being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any +likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly: her +features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very +little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance +there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening +to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before +her eyes. + +After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to +admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, +and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth +looking at in the summer. + +The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants, +and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he +had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by +her Ladyship’s desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish +nothing greater. He carved and ate and praised with delighted alacrity; +and every dish was commended first by him, and then by Sir William, who +was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a +manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady +Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most +gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty +to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready +to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between +Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in +listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all +the dinnertime. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how +little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish and +fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, +and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire. + +When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be +done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any +intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every +subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to have +her judgment controverted. She inquired into Charlotte’s domestic +concerns familiarly and minutely, and gave her a great deal of advice as +to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be +regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the +care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was +beneath this great lady’s attention which could furnish her with an +occasion for dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with +Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and +Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew +the least, and who, she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very genteel, +pretty kind of girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters +she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of +them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they +had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her +mother’s maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her +questions, but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then +observed,-- + +“Your father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think? For your +sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no +occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought +necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s family. Do you play and sing, Miss +Bennet?” + +“A little.” + +“Oh then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our +instrument is a capital one, probably superior to ---- you shall try it +some day. Do your sisters play and sing?” + +“One of them does.” + +“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss +Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do +you draw?” + +“No, not at all.” + +“What, none of you?” + +“Not one.” + +“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother +should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.” + +“My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London.” + +“Has your governess left you?” + +“We never had any governess.” + +“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home +without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must +have been quite a slave to your education.” + +Elizabeth could hardly help smiling, as she assured her that had not +been the case. + +“Then who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must +have been neglected.” + +“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as +wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to +read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be +idle certainly might.” + +“Ay, no doubt: but that is what a governess will prevent; and if I had +known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage +one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady +and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is +wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that +way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces +of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and +it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who +was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite +delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalfe’s +calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady +Catherine,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure.’ Are any of your +younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?” + +“Yes, ma’am, all.” + +“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The +younger ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters must +be very young?” + +“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be much +in company. But really, ma’am, I think it would be very hard upon +younger sisters that they should not have their share of society and +amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to +marry early. The last born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth +as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would +not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.” + +“Upon my word,” said her Ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly +for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?” + +“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your +Ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.” + +Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; +and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever +dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. + +“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure,--therefore you need not +conceal your age.” + +“I am not one-and-twenty.” + +When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card tables +were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat +down to quadrille; and as Miss De Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the +two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her +party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was +uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson +expressed her fears of Miss De Bourgh’s being too hot or too cold, or +having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the +other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes +of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins +was employed in agreeing to everything her Ladyship said, thanking her +for every fish he won, and apologizing if he thought he won too many. +Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes +and noble names. + +When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, +the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, +gratefully accepted, and immediately ordered. The party then gathered +round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were +to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the +arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. +Collins’s side, and as many bows on Sir William’s, they departed. As +soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her +cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, +for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But +her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means +satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship’s +praise into his own hands. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + +[Illustration] + +Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford; but his visit was long +enough to convince him of his daughter’s being most comfortably settled, +and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not +often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his +mornings to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country: but +when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, +and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her +cousin by the alteration; for the chief of the time between breakfast +and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden, or in +reading and writing, and looking out of window in his own book room, +which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. +Elizabeth at first had rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer +the dining parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a +pleasanter aspect: but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent +reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been +much less in his own apartment had they sat in one equally lively; and +she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement. + +From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and +were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went +along, and how often especially Miss De Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, +which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened +almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had +a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever +prevailed on to get out. + +Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and +not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; +and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings +to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many +hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her Ladyship, +and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during +these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, +and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement +of the furniture, or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she +accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding +out that Mrs. Collins’s joints of meat were too large for her family. + +Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in the +commission of the peace for the county, she was a most active magistrate +in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by +Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be +quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the +village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold +them into harmony and plenty. + +[Illustration: + + “he never failed to inform them” +] + +The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; +and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one +card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart +of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living +of the neighbourhood in general was beyond the Collinses’ reach. This, +however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time +comfortably enough: there were half hours of pleasant conversation with +Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year, that she +had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where +she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was +along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was +a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and +where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine’s curiosity. + +In this quiet way the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. +Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an +addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be +important. Elizabeth had heard, soon after her arrival, that Mr. Darcy +was expected there in the course of a few weeks; and though there were +not many of her acquaintance whom she did not prefer, his coming would +furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and +she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley’s designs on him +were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined +by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest +satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and +seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by +Miss Lucas and herself. + +His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking +the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, +in order to have + +[Illustration: + +“The gentlemen accompanied him.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +the earliest assurance of it; and, after making his bow as the carriage +turned into the park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the +following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were +two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought +with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle, Lord ----; +and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, +the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her +husband’s room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the +other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding,-- + +“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would +never have come so soon to wait upon me.” + +Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment +before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly +afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, +who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and +address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been +used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual +reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her +friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely +courtesied to him, without saying a word. + +Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly, with the +readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but +his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and +garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. +At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of +Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual +way; and, after a moment’s pause, added,-- + +“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never +happened to see her there?” + +She was perfectly sensible that he never had: but she wished to see +whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the +Bingleys and Jane; and she thought he looked a little confused as he +answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The +subject was pursued no further, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went +away. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“At Church” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + +[Illustration] + +Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, +and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasure of +their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they +received any invitation thither, for while there were visitors in the +house they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, +almost a week after the gentlemen’s arrival, that they were honoured by +such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to +come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little +of either Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called +at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had +only seen at church. + +The invitation was accepted, of course, and at a proper hour they joined +the party in Lady Catherine’s drawing-room. Her Ladyship received them +civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so +acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, +almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, +much more than to any other person in the room. + +Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them: anything was a +welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins’s pretty friend had, +moreover, caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and +talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying +at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so +well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much +spirit and flow as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as +well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned +towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her Ladyship, after a +while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not +scruple to call out,-- + +“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking +of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.” + +“We were talking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid +a reply. + +“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I +must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. +There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true +enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever +learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her +health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have +performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?” + +Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister’s proficiency. + +“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady +Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel, +if she does not practise a great deal.” + +“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice. +She practises very constantly.” + +“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write +to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often +tell young ladies, that no excellence in music is to be acquired without +constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will +never play really well, unless she practises more; and though Mrs. +Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told +her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. +Jenkinson’s room. She would be in nobody’s way, you know, in that part +of the house.” + +Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt’s ill-breeding, and made +no answer. + +When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having +promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He +drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then +talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from +her, and moving with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte, +stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer’s +countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first +convenient pause turned to him with an arch smile, and said,-- + +“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear +me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister _does_ play so well. +There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at +the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to +intimidate me.” + +“I shall not say that you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could +not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I +have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you +find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which, in fact, +are not your own.” + +Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to +Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of +me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky +in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a +part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree +of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention +all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me +leave to say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, +and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.” + +“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly. + +“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel +Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.” + +“You shall hear, then--but prepare for something very dreadful. The +first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at +a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four +dances! I am sorry to pain you, but so it was. He danced only four +dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more +than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, +you cannot deny the fact.” + +“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly +beyond my own party.” + +“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel +Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.” + +“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better had I sought an +introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.” + +“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still +addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and +education, and who has lived in the world, is ill-qualified to recommend +himself to strangers?” + +“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to +him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.” + +“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, +“of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot +catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their +concerns, as I often see done.” + +“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the +masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same +force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I +have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I would not take +the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers +as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.” + +Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your +time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can +think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.” + +Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know +what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. +Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said +to Darcy,-- + +“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and +could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion +of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have +been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.” + +Elizabeth looked at Darcy, to see how cordially he assented to his +cousin’s praise: but neither at that moment nor at any other could she +discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss +De Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have +been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation. + +Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth’s performance, mixing +with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received +them with all the forbearance of civility; and at the request of the +gentlemen remained at the instrument till her Ladyship’s carriage was +ready to take them all home. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane, +while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, +when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a +visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be +Lady Catherine; and under that apprehension was putting away her +half-finished letter, that she might escape all impertinent questions, +when the door opened, and to her very great surprise Mr. Darcy, and Mr. +Darcy only, entered the room. + +He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologized for his +intrusion, by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies to +be within. + +They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, +seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely +necessary, therefore, to think of something; and in this emergency +recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling +curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty +departure, she observed,-- + +“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! +It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you +all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day +before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?” + +“Perfectly so, I thank you.” + +She found that she was to receive no other answer; and, after a short +pause, added,-- + +“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever +returning to Netherfield again?” + +“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend +very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is +at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually +increasing.” + +“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the +neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we +might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did +not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as +for his own, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same +principle.” + +“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as +soon as any eligible purchase offers.” + +Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his +friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the +trouble of finding a subject to him. + +He took the hint and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable +house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. +Collins first came to Hunsford.” + +“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her +kindness on a more grateful object.” + +“Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.” + +“Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of +the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made +him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though +I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest +thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however; and, in a +prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.” + +“It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a +distance of her own family and friends.” + +“An easy distance do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” + +“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s +journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.” + +“I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_ +of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins +was settled _near_ her family.” + +“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond +the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” + +As he spoke there was a sort of smile, which Elizabeth fancied she +understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and +Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered,-- + +“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her +family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many +varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of +travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the +case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not +such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my +friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_ +the present distance.” + +Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot +have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have +been always at Longbourn.” + +Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of +feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and, +glancing over it, said, in a colder voice,-- + +“Are you pleased with Kent?” + +A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side +calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte +and her sister, just returned from their walk. The _tête-à-tête_ +surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his +intruding on Miss Bennet, and, after sitting a few minutes longer, +without saying much to anybody, went away. + +[Illustration: “Accompanied by their aunt” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was +gone. “My dear Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never +have called on us in this familiar way.” + +But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, +even to Charlotte’s wishes, to be the case; and, after various +conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from +the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable +from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there +was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard table, but gentlemen cannot be +always within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the +pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the +two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither +almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes +separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their +aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he +had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended +him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in +being with him, as well as by his evident admiration, of her former +favourite, George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there +was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s manners, she +believed he might have the best informed mind. + +But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage it was more difficult +to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there +ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it +seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice to +propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really +animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel +Fitzwilliam’s occasionally laughing at his stupidity proved that he was +generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told +her; and as she would have liked to believe this change the effect of +love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself +seriously to work to find it out: she watched him whenever they were at +Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He +certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that +look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often +doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it +seemed nothing but absence of mind. + +She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his +being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. +Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of +raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her +opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend’s dislike would +vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power. + +In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying +Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was, beyond comparison, the pleasantest man: he +certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, +to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage +in the church, and his cousin could have none at all. + + + + +[Illustration: “On looking up”] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + + +[Illustration] + +More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, +unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the +mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought; and, to +prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him, at first, +that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, +therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even the third. It seemed like +wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance; for on these occasions it was +not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, +but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He +never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking +or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third +rencounter that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about her +pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her +opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins’s happiness; and that in speaking of +Rosings, and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to +expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying +_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel +Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must +mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her +a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the +pales opposite the Parsonage. + +She was engaged one day, as she walked, in re-perusing Jane’s last +letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not +written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, +she saw, on looking up, that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. +Putting away the letter immediately, and forcing a smile, she said,-- + +“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.” + +“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally +do every year, and intended to close it with a call at the Parsonage. +Are you going much farther?” + +“No, I should have turned in a moment.” + +And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage +together. + +“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she. + +“Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He +arranges the business just as he pleases.” + +“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least +great pleasure in the power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems +more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.” + +“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. +“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than +many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak +feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and +dependence.” + +“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of +either. Now, seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and +dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going +wherever you chose or procuring anything you had a fancy for?” + +“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have +experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater +weight, I may suffer from the want of money. Younger sons cannot marry +where they like.” + +“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often +do.” + +“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in +my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to +money.” + +“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the +idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is +the usual price of an earl’s younger son? Unless the elder brother is +very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.” + +He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt +a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, +she soon afterwards said,-- + +“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of +having somebody at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a +lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well +for the present; and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he +likes with her.” + +“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must +divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.” + +“Are you, indeed? And pray what sort of a guardian do you make? Does +your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes +a little difficult to manage; and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she +may like to have her own way.” + +As she spoke, she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner +in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to +give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other +got pretty near the truth. She directly replied,-- + +“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare +say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a +very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and +Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.” + +“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike +man--he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” + +“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth drily--“Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. +Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.” + +“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in +those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me +in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted +to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose +that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.” + +“What is it you mean?” + +“It is a circumstance which Darcy of course could not wish to be +generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family it +would be an unpleasant thing.” + +“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.” + +“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be +Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself +on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most +imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other +particulars; and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him +the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from +knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.” + +“Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?” + +“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the +lady.” + +“And what arts did he use to separate them?” + +“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He +only told me what I have now told you.” + +Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with +indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she +was so thoughtful. + +“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your +cousin’s conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the +judge?” + +“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?” + +“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his +friend’s inclination; or why, upon his own judgment alone, he was to +determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy. But,” +she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the +particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed +that there was much affection in the case.” + +“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam; “but it is +lessening the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.” + +This was spoken jestingly, but it appeared to her so just a picture of +Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer; and, +therefore, abruptly changing the conversation, talked on indifferent +matters till they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, +as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption +of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other +people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There +could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have +such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures +taken to separate Mr. Bingley and Jane, she had never doubted; but she +had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and +arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, +_he_ was the cause--his pride and caprice were the cause--of all that +Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a +while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart +in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have +inflicted. + +“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel +Fitzwilliam’s words; and these strong objections probably were, her +having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in +business in London. + +“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of +objection,--all loveliness and goodness as she is! Her understanding +excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could +anything be urged against my father, who, though with some +peculiarities, has abilities which Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, +and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought +of her mother, indeed, her confidence gave way a little; but she would +not allow that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. +Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from +the want of importance in his friend’s connections than from their want +of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly +governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of +retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister. + +The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned brought on a +headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening that, added to +her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her +cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, +seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go, and as much +as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins +could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine’s being rather +displeased by her staying at home. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + + +[Illustration] + +When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as +much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the +examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her +being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any +revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. +But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that +cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, +proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly +disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth +noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an +attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s +shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a +keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to +think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, +and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be +with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her +spirits, by all that affection could do. + +She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his +cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear +that he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not +mean to be unhappy about him. + +While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the +door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its +being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in +the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But +this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently +affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the +room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her +health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. +She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and +then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but +said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her +in an agitated manner, and thus began:-- + +“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be +repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love +you.” + +Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, +doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, +and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately +followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the +heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of +tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a +degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed +to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the +consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his +suit. + +In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to +the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did +not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to +receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost +all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to +answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with +representing to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of +all his endeavours he had found impossible to conquer; and with +expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of +his hand. As he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a +favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but his +countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only +exasperate farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks +and she said,-- + +“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to +express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however +unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be +felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I +cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly +bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to +anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be +of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented +the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in +overcoming it after this explanation.” + +Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed +on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than +surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of +his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the +appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed +himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings +dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,-- + +“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I +might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at +civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.” + +“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident a design +of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me +against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? +Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have +other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided +against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been +favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept +the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the +happiness of a most beloved sister?” + +As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion +was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she +continued,-- + +“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can +excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not, +you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means +of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the +world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for +disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest +kind.” + +She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening +with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. +He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity. + +“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated. + +With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying +that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your +sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been +kinder than towards myself.” + +Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, +but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her. + +“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike +is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was +decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received +many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to +say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? +or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?” + +“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, +in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour. + +“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an +interest in him?” + +“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy, contemptuously,--“yes, his +misfortunes have been great indeed.” + +“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth, with energy; “You have +reduced him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You +have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed +for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that +independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done +all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with +contempt and ridicule.” + +“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, +“is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I +thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this +calculation, are heavy indeed! But, perhaps,” added he, stopping in his +walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been +overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the +scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These +bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater +policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my +being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by +reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. +Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. +Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your +connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose +condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” + +Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to +the utmost to speak with composure when she said,-- + +“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your +declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the +concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a +more gentlemanlike manner.” + +She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,-- + +“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way +that would have tempted me to accept it.” + +Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an +expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,-- + +“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my +acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest +belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the +feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of +disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a +dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the +last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.” + +“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your +feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. +Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best +wishes for your health and happiness.” + +And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him +the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of +her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, +and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her +astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by +every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from +Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months! +so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections +which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which +must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost +incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong +an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal +of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in +acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner +which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not +attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his +attachment had for a moment excited. + +She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady +Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter +Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“Hearing herself called” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations +which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the +surprise of what had happened: it was impossible to think of anything +else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved soon after +breakfast to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding +directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy’s +sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, +she turned up the lane which led her farther from the turnpike road. The +park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one +of the gates into the ground. + +After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was +tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and +look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had +made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the +verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her +walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove +which edged the park: he was moving that way; and fearful of its being +Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was +now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, +pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, +though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again +towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also; and, holding out +a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty +composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time, in the hope of +meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” and +then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon +out of sight. + +With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, +Elizabeth opened the letter, and to her still increasing wonder, +perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter paper, written +quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise +full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated +from Rosings, at eight o’clock in the morning, and was as follows:-- + +“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of +its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those +offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any +intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, +which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the +effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, +should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written +and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand +your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I +demand it of your justice. + +“Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal +magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, +that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley +from your sister,--and the other, that I had, in defiance of various +claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate +prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and +wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged +favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other +dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect +its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young +persons whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could +bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last +night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope +to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and +their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them which is due +to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be +offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must +be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd. I had not been long in +Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley +preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But +it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any +apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him +in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with +you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas’s accidental +information, that Bingley’s attentions to your sister had given rise to +a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain +event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I +observed my friend’s behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive +that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed +in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, +cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar +regard; and I remained convinced, from the evening’s scrutiny, that +though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite +them by any participation of sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken +here, _I_ must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your +sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled +by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been +unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of +your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most +acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart +was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing +her indifferent is certain; but I will venture to say that my +investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or +fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I +believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. +My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night +acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside +in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to +my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes +which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both +instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not +immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The +situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in +comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost +uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and +occasionally even by your father:--pardon me,--it pains me to offend +you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, +and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you +consolation to consider that to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid +any share of the like censure is praise no less generally bestowed on +you and your eldest sister than it is honourable to the sense and +disposition of both. I will only say, farther, that from what passed +that evening my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every +inducement heightened, which could have led me before to preserve my +friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left +Netherfield for London on the day following, as you, I am certain, +remember, with the design of soon returning. The part which I acted is +now to be explained. His sisters’ uneasiness had been equally excited +with my own: our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike +sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we +shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly +went--and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my +friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described and enforced them +earnestly. But however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed +his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have +prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance, which +I hesitated not in giving, of your sister’s indifference. He had before +believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal, +regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger +dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, +that he had deceived himself was no very difficult point. To persuade +him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been +given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for +having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct, in the whole +affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I +condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him +your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss +Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might +have met without ill consequence is, perhaps, probable; but his regard +did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some +danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me. It is +done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have +nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your +sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which +governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not +yet learnt to condemn them.--With respect to that other, more weighty +accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by +laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he +has _particularly_ accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I +shall relate I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. +Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years +the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in +the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service +to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was +therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and +afterwards at Cambridge; most important assistance, as his own father, +always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to +give him a gentleman’s education. My father was not only fond of this +young man’s society, whose manners were always engaging, he had also the +highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, +intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years +since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The +vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to +guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the +observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who +had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy +could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree you +only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has +created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding +his real character. It adds even another motive. My excellent father +died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the +last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me to +promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might +allow, and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living +might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of +one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine; and +within half a year from these events Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me +that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should +not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate +pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be +benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law, and I +must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very +insufficient support therein. I rather wished than believed him to be +sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his +proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The +business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance +in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to +receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection +between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him +to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town, I believe, he +chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence; and being +now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and +dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the +decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, +he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His +circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, +were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, +and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present +him to the living in question--of which he trusted there could be little +doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, +and I could not have forgotten my revered father’s intentions. You will +hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for +resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to +the distress of his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in +his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this +period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived, I +know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my +notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget +myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me +to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of +your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left +to the guardianship of my mother’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and +myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an +establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with +the lady who presided over it to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. +Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior +acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were +most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far +recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a +strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was +persuaded to believe herself in love and to consent to an elopement. She +was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her +imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to +herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended +elopement; and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving +and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, +acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I +acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public +exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, +and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham’s +chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, which is thirty +thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging +himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been +complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in +which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely +reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty +towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of +falsehood, he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be +wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning +either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly +not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not +told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know +what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here +related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel +Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and +still more as one of the executors of my father’s will, has been +unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If +your abhorrence of _me_ should make _my_ assertions valueless, you +cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and +that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour +to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the +course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you. + +“FITZWILLIAM DARCY.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to +contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of +its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly +she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. +Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did +she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; +and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to +give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong +prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of +what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which +hardly left her power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing +what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the +sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s +insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the +real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any +wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done +which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all +pride and insolence. + +But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when +she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which, +if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which +bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her feelings +were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. +Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished +to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! +This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had +gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the +last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not +regard it, that she would never look in it again. + +In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on +nothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter +was unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she +again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and +commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. +The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly +what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, +though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his +own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to +the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living +was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was +impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the +other, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did +not err. But when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the +particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions +to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three +thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the +letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be +impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with +little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. +But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had +believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to +render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a +turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole. + +The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to +Mr. Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could +bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his +entrance into the ----shire militia, in which he had engaged at the +persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, +had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, +nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told + +[Illustration: + + “Meeting accidentally in Town” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, +she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and +manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. +She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished +trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the +attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone +for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what +Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ +continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him +instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could +remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the +neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in +the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once +more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his +designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed +between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at +last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel +Fitzwilliam himself--from whom she had previously received the +information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs and whose +character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost +resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness +of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that +Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been +well assured of his cousin’s corroboration. + +She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation +between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. +Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_ +struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and +wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting +himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions +with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear +of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that +_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball +the very next week. She remembered, also, that till the Netherfield +family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but +herself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed; +that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s +character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would +always prevent his exposing the son. + +How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His +attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and +hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer +the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. +His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive: he had +either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying +his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most +incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter +and fainter; and in further justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not +but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago +asserted his blamelessness in the affair;--that, proud and repulsive as +were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their +acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much +together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything +that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him +of irreligious or immoral habits;--that among his own connections he was +esteemed and valued;--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a +brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his +sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;--that had his +actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of +everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and +that friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man +as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible. + +She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham +could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, +prejudiced, absurd. + +“How despicably have I acted!” she cried. “I, who have prided myself on +my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have +often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my +vanity in useless or blameless distrust. How humiliating is this +discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not +have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my +folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect +of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted +prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were +concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.” + +From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line +which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation +_there_ had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely +different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that +credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to +give in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious +of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what +Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice +of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though +fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant +complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great +sensibility. + +When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were +mentioned, in tones of such mortifying, yet merited, reproach, her sense +of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly +for denial; and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as +having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first +disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind +than on hers. + +The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but +it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus +self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that +Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest +relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt +by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she +had ever known before. + +After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every +variety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and +reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so +important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at +length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing +cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as +must make her unfit for conversation. + +She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each +called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take +leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least +an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her +till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern in +missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no +longer an object. She could think only of her letter. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“His parting obeisance” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + + +[Illustration] + +The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having +been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was +able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very +good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the +melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then +hastened to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return +brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her Ladyship, +importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of +having them all to dine with her. + +Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had +she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her +future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her +Ladyship’s indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how +would she have behaved?” were the questions with which she amused +herself. + +Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings’ party. “I assure +you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe nobody +feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly +attached to these young men; and know them to be so much attached to me! +They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear +Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy +seemed to feel it most acutely--more, I think, than last year. His +attachment to Rosings certainly increases.” + +Mr. Collins had a compliment and an allusion to throw in here, which +were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter. + +Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of +spirits; and immediately accounting for it herself, by supposing that +she did not like to go home again so soon, she added,-- + +“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother to beg that you +may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your +company, I am sure.” + +“I am much obliged to your Ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied +Elizabeth; “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town +next Saturday.” + +“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected +you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There +can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly +spare you for another fortnight.” + +“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.” + +[Illustration: + +“Dawson” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“Oh, your father, of course, may spare you, if your mother can. +Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will +stay another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you +as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and +as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good +room for one of you--and, indeed, if the weather should happen to be +cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you +large.” + +“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our +original plan.” + +Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant +with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea +of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. +You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the +world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly +guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my +niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her +having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. +Darcy of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with +propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those +things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am +glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be +discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.” + +“My uncle is to send a servant for us.” + +“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you +have somebody who thinks of those things. Where shall you change horses? +Oh, Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be +attended to.” + +Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey; +and as she did not answer them all herself attention was +necessary--which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a +mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection +must be reserved for solitary hours: whenever she was alone, she gave +way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a +solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of +unpleasant recollections. + +Mr. Darcy’s letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She +studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at +times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, +she was still full of indignation: but when she considered how unjustly +she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against +herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. +His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect: but she +could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or +feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past +behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret: and in +the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. +They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at +them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his +youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right +herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently +united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine +and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother’s indulgence, +what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, +irritable, and completely under Lydia’s guidance, had been always +affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would +scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While +there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while +Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there for +ever. + +Anxiety on Jane’s behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy’s +explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, +heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to +have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any +could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How +grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every +respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had +been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family! + +When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham’s +character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had +seldom been depressed before were now so much affected as to make it +almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful. + +Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of +her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent +there; and her Ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of +their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, +and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right +way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the +work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh. + +When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them +a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; +and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to courtesy and hold out +her hand to both. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The elevation of his feelings.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few +minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of +paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary. + +“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet +expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very +certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for +it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know +how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain +manner of living, our small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we +see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like +yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, +and that we have done everything in our power to prevent you spending +your time unpleasantly.” + +Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had +spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with +Charlotte, and the kind attention she had received, must make _her_ feel +the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified; and with a more smiling +solemnity replied,-- + +“It gives me the greatest pleasure to hear that you have passed your +time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most +fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior +society, and from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of +varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that +your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation +with regard to Lady Catherine’s family is, indeed, the sort of +extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on +what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In +truth, I must acknowledge, that, with all the disadvantages of this +humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of +compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.” + +Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was +obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility +and truth in a few short sentences. + +“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into +Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself, at least, that you will +be able to do so. Lady Catherine’s great attentions to Mrs. Collins you +have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear +that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be +as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, +that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in +marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of +thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of +character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each +other.” + +Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was +the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed +and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to +have the recital of them interrupted by the entrance of the lady from +whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such +society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently +regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for +compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, +and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms. + +At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels +placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate +parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by +Mr. Collins; and as they walked down the garden, he was commissioning +her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks +for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his +compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed +her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, +when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had +hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies of Rosings. + +[Illustration: + +“They had forgotten to leave any message” +] + +“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects +delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you +while you have been here.” + +Elizabeth made no objection: the door was then allowed to be shut, and +the carriage drove off. + +“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes’ silence, “it seems +but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have +happened!” + +“A great many indeed,” said her companion, with a sigh. + +“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! +How much I shall have to tell!” + +Elizabeth privately added, “And how much I shall have to conceal!” + +Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and +within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner’s +house, where they were to remain a few days. + +Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her +spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt +had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at +Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation. + +It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for +Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy’s proposals. To know +that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish +Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own +vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation +to openness as nothing could have conquered, but the state of indecision +in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate, +and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into +repeating something of Bingley, which might only grieve her sister +further. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “How nicely we are crammed in” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + + +[Illustration] + +It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out +together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire; +and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet’s carriage was +to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman’s +punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. +These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed +in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and +dressing a salad and cucumber. + +After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set +out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, +“Is not this nice? is not this an agreeable surprise?” + +“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia; “but you must lend us the +money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then showing +her purchases,--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it +is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall +pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any +better.” + +And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect +unconcern, “Oh, but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and +when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I +think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what +one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they +are going in a fortnight.” + +“Are they, indeed?” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction. + +“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to +take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme, +and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to +go, too, of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall +have!” + +“Yes,” thought Elizabeth; “_that_ would be a delightful scheme, indeed, +and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton and a whole +campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor +regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!” + +“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down to +table. “What do you think? It is excellent news, capital news, and about +a certain person that we all like.” + +Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told that he +need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said,-- + +“Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the +waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse +things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad +he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for +my news: it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is not it? +There is no danger of Wickham’s marrying Mary King--there’s for you! She +is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool; gone to stay. Wickham is safe.” + +“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection +imprudent as to fortune.” + +“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.” + +“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane. + +“I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared +three straws about her. Who _could_ about such a nasty little freckled +thing?” + +Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such +coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_ +was little other than her own breast had formerly harboured and fancied +liberal! + +As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was +ordered; and, after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their +boxes, workbags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty’s and +Lydia’s purchases, were seated in it. + +“How nicely we are crammed in!” cried Lydia. “I am glad I brought my +bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another band-box! Well, now +let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way +home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all +since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any +flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband +before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. +She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord! how ashamed I should be of not +being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Philips wants you so to +get husbands you can’t think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. +Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! +how I should like to be married before any of you! and then I would +_chaperon_ you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece +of fun the other day at Colonel Forster’s! Kitty and me were to spend +the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the +evening; (by-the-bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so +she asked the two Harringtons to come: but Harriet was ill, and so Pen +was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We +dressed up Chamberlayne in woman’s clothes, on purpose to pass for a +lady,--only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. +Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow +one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, +and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they +did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. +Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect +something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.” + +With such kind of histories of their parties and good jokes did Lydia, +assisted by Kitty’s hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her +companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she +could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham’s name. + +Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane +in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet +say voluntarily to Elizabeth,---- + +“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.” + +Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases +came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects +which occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, across the +table, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet +was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present +fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and on the other, +retailing them all to the younger Miss Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice +rather louder than any other person’s, was enumerating the various +pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her. + +“Oh, Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! +as we went along Kitty and me drew up all the blinds, and pretended +there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if +Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we +behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest +cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have +treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought +we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. +And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so +loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!” + +To this, Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, +to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the +generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for +_me_. I should infinitely prefer a book.” + +But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to +anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all. + +In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to +Meryton, and see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed +the scheme. It should not be said, that the Miss Bennets could not be at +home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was +another reason, too, for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Wickham +again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to +_her_, of the regiment’s approaching removal, was indeed beyond +expression. In a fortnight they were to go, and once gone, she hoped +there could be nothing more to plague her on his account. + +She had not been many hours at home, before she found that the Brighton +scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under +frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her +father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were +at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often +disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no +longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular +in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, +she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. +Darcy and herself. + +Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly +partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly +natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was +sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so +little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the +unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him. + +“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly +ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his +disappointment.” + +“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has +other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. +You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?” + +“Blame you! Oh, no.” + +“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?” + +“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.” + +“But you _will_ know it, when I have told you what happened the very +next day.” + +She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far +as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane, +who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that +so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here +collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though +grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. +Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and +seek to clear one, without involving the other. + +“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both +of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied +with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just +enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting +about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr. +Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.” + +It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane. + +“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so +very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, +only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and +with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a +thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must +feel it so.” + +“Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full +of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing +every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me +saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as +light as a feather.” + +“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his +countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.” + +“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those +two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the +appearance of it.” + +“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you +used to do.” + +“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike +to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an +opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually +abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing +at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.” + +“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat +the matter as you do now.” + +“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very +uncomfortable--I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I +felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak, +and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!” + +“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions +in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly +undeserved.” + +“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most +natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is +one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I +ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand +Wickham’s character.” + +Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no +occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?” + +“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to +make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular +relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to +myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his +conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is +so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in +Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to +it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to +anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found +out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. +At present I will say nothing about it.” + +“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for +ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to +re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.” + +The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She +had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a +fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she +might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something +lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not +relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister +how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in +which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than +a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in +throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if +that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be +able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner +himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost +all its value!” + +She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real +state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a +very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in +love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from +her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often +boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to +every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the +feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those +regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their +tranquillity. + +“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of +this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak +of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I +cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a +very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there is the least +chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his +coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of +everybody, too, who is likely to know.” + +[Illustration: + + “I am determined never to speak of it again” +] + +“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.” + +“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I +shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was +her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure +Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he +has done.” + +But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she +made no answer. + +“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the +Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it +will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an +excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, +she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_ +housekeeping, I dare say.” + +“No, nothing at all.” + +“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. _They_ will +take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed +for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often +talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it +quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.” + +“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.” + +“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they +often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an +estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. _I_ should be +ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.” + + + + +[Illustration: + +“When Colonel Miller’s regiment went away” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + + +[Illustration] + +The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was +the last of the regiment’s stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in +the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost +universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, +and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very +frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and +Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such +hard-heartedness in any of the family. + +“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they +often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, +Lizzy?” + +Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what +she had herself endured on a similar occasion five-and-twenty years ago. + +“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel +Miller’s regiment went away. I thought I should have broke my heart.” + +“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia. + +“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet. + +“Oh yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.” + +“A little sea-bathing would set me up for ever.” + +“And my aunt Philips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,” +added Kitty. + +Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through +Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense +of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s +objections; and never had she before been so much disposed to pardon his +interference in the views of his friend. + +But the gloom of Lydia’s prospect was shortly cleared away; for she +received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the +regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a +very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good-humour +and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of +their _three_ months’ acquaintance they had been intimate _two_. + +The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, +the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely +to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister’s feelings, Lydia flew +about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone’s +congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; +whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repining at her fate +in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish. + +“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,” +said she, “though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much +right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.” + +In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make +her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from +exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she +considered it as the death-warrant of all possibility of common sense +for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her, were it +known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her +go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia’s general +behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of +such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more +imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must +be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said,-- + +“Lydia will never be easy till she has exposed herself in some public +place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little +expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present +circumstances.” + +“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to +us all, which must arise from the public notice of Lydia’s unguarded and +imprudent manner, nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you +would judge differently in the affair.” + +“Already arisen!” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What! has she frightened away +some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such +squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity +are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of the pitiful fellows +who have been kept aloof by Lydia’s folly.” + +“Indeed, you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not +of peculiar, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our +importance, our respectability in the world, must be affected by the +wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark +Lydia’s character. Excuse me,--for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear +father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and +of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of +her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character +will be fixed; and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt +that ever made herself and her family ridiculous;--a flirt, too, in the +worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond +youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of +her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal +contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty +is also comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, +ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh, my dear father, can you +suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever +they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the +disgrace?” + +Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject; and, +affectionately taking her hand, said, in reply,-- + +“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known, +you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less +advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly +sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to +Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will +keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an +object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance +even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find +women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being +there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow +many degrees worse, without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest +of her life.” + +With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion +continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not +in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. +She was confident of having performed her duty; and to fret over +unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her +disposition. + +Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her +father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their +united volubility. In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised +every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye +of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. +She saw herself the object of attention to tens and to scores of them at +present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp: its tents +stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young +and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she +saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six +officers at once. + +[Illustration: + +“Tenderly flirting” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +Had she known that her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and +such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could +have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the +same. Lydia’s going to Brighton was all that consoled her for the +melancholy conviction of her husband’s never intending to go there +himself. + +But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures +continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia’s leaving +home. + +Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been +frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty +well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even +learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, +an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present +behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure; +for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those attentions which +had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after +what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in +finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous +gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the +reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever +cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, +and her preference secured, at any time, by their renewal. + +On the very last day of the regiment’s remaining in Meryton, he dined, +with others of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth +disposed to part from him in good-humour, that, on his making some +inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she +mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam’s and Mr. Darcy’s having both spent three +weeks at Rosings, and asked him if he were acquainted with the former. + +He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but, with a moment’s +recollection, and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen +him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, +asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. +With an air of indifference, he soon afterwards added, “How long did you +say that he was at Rosings?” + +“Nearly three weeks.” + +“And you saw him frequently?” + +“Yes, almost every day.” + +“His manners are very different from his cousin’s.” + +“Yes, very different; but I think Mr. Darcy improves on acquaintance.” + +“Indeed!” cried Wickham, with a look which did not escape her. “And pray +may I ask--” but checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in +address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his +ordinary style? for I dare not hope,” he continued, in a lower and more +serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.” + +“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much +what he ever was.” + +While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to +rejoice over her words or to distrust their meaning. There was a +something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive +and anxious attention, while she added,-- + +“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that +either his mind or manners were in a state of improvement; but that, +from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.” + +Wickham’s alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated +look; for a few minutes he was silent; till, shaking off his +embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of +accents,-- + +“You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr. Darcy, will readily +comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume +even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction, +may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter +him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that +the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is +merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and +judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I +know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his +wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he +has very much at heart.” + +Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a +slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on +the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge +him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his side, +of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish +Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a +mutual desire of never meeting again. + +When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, +from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation +between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the +only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. +Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, +and impressive in her injunctions that she would not miss the +opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible,--advice which there +was every reason to believe would be attended to; and, in the clamorous +happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus +of her sisters were uttered without being heard. + + + + +[Illustration: + +The arrival of the +Gardiners +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + + +[Illustration] + +Had Elizabeth’s opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could +not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic +comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance +of good-humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a +woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in +their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, +esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of +domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a +disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own +imprudence had brought on in any of those pleasures which too often +console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of +the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal +enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted than as +her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not +the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his +wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true +philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. + +Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her +father’s behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but +respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of +herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to +banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation +and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own +children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so +strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so +unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising +from so ill-judged a direction of talents--talents which, rightly used, +might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even +if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife. + +When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham’s departure, she found little +other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties +abroad were less varied than before; and at home she had a mother and +sister, whose constant repinings at the dulness of everything around +them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty +might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers +of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition +greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her +folly and assurance, by a situation of such double danger as a +watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what +has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had looked +forward with impatient desire, did not, in taking place, bring all the +satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to +name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity; to have +some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by +again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the +present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes +was now the object of her happiest thoughts: it was her best consolation +for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother +and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the +scheme, every part of it would have been perfect. + +“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for. +Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. +But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my +sister’s absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of +pleasure realized. A scheme of which every part promises delight can +never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by +the defence of some little peculiar vexation.” + +When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely +to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and +always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that +they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers +had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as +made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which +she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a +violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going to the +camp; and from her correspondence with her sister there was still less +to be learnt, for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much +too full of lines under the words to be made public. + +After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, +good-humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything +wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter +came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. +Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and by the middle +of June Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton +without tears,--an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth +hope, that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably +reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by +some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment +should be quartered in Meryton. + +The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast +approaching; and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter +arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and +curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from +setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again +within a month; and as that left too short a period for them to go so +far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with +the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up +the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour; and, according to the +present plan, were to go no farther northward than Derbyshire. In that +county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three +weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The +town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where +they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of +her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, +Dovedale, or the Peak. + +Elizabeth was excessively disappointed: she had set her heart on seeing +the Lakes; and still thought there might have been time enough. But it +was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy; +and all was soon right again. + +With the mention of Derbyshire, there were many ideas connected. It was +impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its +owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity, +and rob it of a few petrified spars, without his perceiving me.” + +The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away +before her uncle and aunt’s arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and +Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at +Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two +younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin +Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and +sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every +way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them. + +The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next +morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One +enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness as companions; a +suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear +inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection +and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were +disappointments abroad. + +It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, +nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither +lay--Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc., are +sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present +concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s +former residence, and where she had lately learned that some +acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen +all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of +Lambton, Elizabeth found, from her aunt, that Pemberley was situated. It +was not in their direct road; nor more than a mile or two out of it. In +talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an +inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his +willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation. + +“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so +much?” said her aunt. “A place, too, with which so many of your +acquaintance are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you +know.” + +Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at +Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She +must own that she was tired of great houses: after going over so many, +she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains. + +Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house +richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but the +grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the +country.” + +Elizabeth said no more; but her mind could not acquiesce. The +possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly +occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea; and +thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt, than to run such +a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved +that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries as to the +absence of the family were unfavourably answered. + +Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid +whether Pemberley were not a very fine place, what was the name of its +proprietor, and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for +the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question; and her +alarms being now removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of +curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the +next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and +with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike +to the scheme. + +To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Conjecturing as to the date” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of +Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned +in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter. + +The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They +entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through +a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent. + +Elizabeth’s mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired +every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for +half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable +eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by +Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of the valley, into which +the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone +building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high +woody hills; and in front a stream of some natural importance was +swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks +were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She +had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural +beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were +all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that +to be mistress of Pemberley might be something! + +They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, +while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of +meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been +mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the +hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to +wonder at her being where she was. + +The housekeeper came; a respectable looking elderly woman, much less +fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They +followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned +room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went +to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from +which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the +distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was +good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered +on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace +it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were +taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties +to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture +suitable to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with +admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly +fine,--with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the +furniture of Rosings. + +“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With +these rooms I might have now been familiarly acquainted! Instead of +viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and +welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But, no,” recollecting +herself, “that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to +me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.” + +This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret. + +She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master were really +absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was +asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds +replied, that he was; adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large +party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had +not by any circumstance been delayed a day! + +Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw +the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other +miniatures, over the mantel-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how +she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the +picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master’s steward, who +had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the +army,” she added; “but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.” + +Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not +return it. + +“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, +“is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the +other--about eight years ago.” + +“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner, +looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell +us whether it is like or not.” + +Mrs. Reynolds’ respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this +intimation of her knowing her master. + +“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?” + +Elizabeth coloured, and said, “A little.” + +“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” + +“Yes, very handsome.” + +“I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you +will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late +master’s favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to +be then. He was very fond of them.” + +This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham’s being among them. + +Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn +when she was only eight years old. + +“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mr. Gardiner. + +“Oh, yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so +accomplished! She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a +new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master: she +comes here to-morrow with him.” + +Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her +communicativeness by his questions and remarks: Mrs. Reynolds, either +from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her +master and his sister. + +“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?” + +“Not so much as I could wish, sir: but I dare say he may spend half his +time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.” + +“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.” + +“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.” + +“Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is +good enough for him.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is +very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.” + +“I say no more than the truth, and what everybody will say that knows +him,” replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; +and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, +“I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him +ever since he was four years old.” + +This was praise of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her +ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. +Her keenest attention was awakened: she longed to hear more; and was +grateful to her uncle for saying,-- + +“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in +having such a master.” + +“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not +meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are +good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he +was always the sweetest tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the +world.” + +Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she. + +“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner. + +“Yes, ma’am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just +as affable to the poor.” + +Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. +Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects +of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the +furniture in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family +prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her +master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his +many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase. + +“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever +lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but +themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will +give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never +saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle +away like other young men.” + +“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth. + +“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not +quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.” + +“Perhaps we might be deceived.” + +“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.” + +On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shown into a very pretty +sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than +the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to +give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room, when +last at Pemberley. + +“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards +one of the windows. + +Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy’s delight, when she should enter +the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever +can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There +is nothing he would not do for her.” + +The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were +all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings: +but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already +visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss +Darcy’s, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and +also more intelligible. + +In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have +little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest +of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it +arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with +such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen, +when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in +earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the +gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his +father’s lifetime. + +There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth’s mind, a more gentle +sensation towards the original than she had ever felt in the height of +their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds +was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise +of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she +considered how many people’s happiness were in his guardianship! How +much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow! How much of good +or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by +the housekeeper was favourable to his character; and as she stood before +the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon +herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude +than it had ever raised before: she remembered its warmth, and softened +its impropriety of expression. + +When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, +they returned down stairs; and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were +consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door. + +As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back +to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also; and while the former was +conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself +suddenly came forward from the road which led behind it to the stables. + +They were within twenty yards of each other; and so abrupt was his +appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes +instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest +blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from +surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, +and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least +of perfect civility. + +She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, +received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be +overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture +they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two +that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener’s expression of surprise, on +beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little +aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, +scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she +returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the +alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he +uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the +impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few +minutes in which they continued together were some of the most +uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he +spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his +inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay +in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the +distraction of his thoughts. + +At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing a few +moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took +leave. + +The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his +figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own +feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and +vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged +thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a +disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if +she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? +or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been +only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his +discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that +moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and +again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so +strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to +her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her +family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, +never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. +What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when +he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to +account for it. + +They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and +every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer +reach of the woods to which they were approaching: but it was some time +before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered +mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed +to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she +distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that +one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then +was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in +what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, +she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he +felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was +not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing +her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with +composure. + +At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind +roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself. + +They entered the woods, and, bidding adieu to the river for a while, +ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening +of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of +the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods +overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner +expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be +beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten +miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed +circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among +hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. +They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of +the scene: it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and +the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the +stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered +it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed +the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, +who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of +returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, +therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house +on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their +progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the +taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the +occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man +about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this +slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth’s astonishment was +quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy +approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less +sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they +met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an +interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with +calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, +she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea +lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the +turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw that +he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, +she began as they met to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not +got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when some unlucky +recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from +her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said +no more. + +Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked +her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. +This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and +she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the +acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had +revolted, in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought +she, “when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of +fashion.” + +The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their +relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore +it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he +could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the +connection was evident: he sustained it, however, with fortitude: and, +so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into +conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, +could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some +relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most +attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every +expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, +his taste, or his good manners. + +The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy +invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he +chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same +time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of +the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was +walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her +wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the +compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was +extreme; and continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From +what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake +that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not +work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love +me.” + +After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two +gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the +brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious +water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in +Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found +Elizabeth’s arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred +her husband’s. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on +together. After a short silence the lady first spoke. She wished him to +know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the +place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been +very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that +you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and, indeed, before we +left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in +the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that +business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours +before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They +will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some +who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.” + +Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly +driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley’s name had been last mentioned +between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was +not very differently engaged. + +“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a +pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow +me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance +during your stay at Lambton?” + +The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great +for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt +that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, +must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was +satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made +him think really ill of her. + +They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth +was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and +pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of +the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others; and when they had +reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a +mile behind. + +He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not +tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might +have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but +there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that +she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dovedale with +great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience +and her ideas were nearly worn out before the _tête-à-tête_ was over. + +On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s coming up they were all pressed to go into +the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they +parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the +ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him +walking slowly towards the house. + +The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them +pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. + +“He is perfectly well-behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle. + +“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her +aunt; “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now +say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, +_I_ have seen nothing of it.” + +“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more +than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such +attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.” + +“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham; +or rather he has not Wickham’s countenance, for his features are +perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so +disagreeable?” + +Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could: said that she had liked +him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never +seen him so pleasant as this morning. + +“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied +her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him +at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and +warn me off his grounds.” + +Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said +nothing. + +“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really +should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by +anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. +On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he +speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would +not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the +good lady who showed us the house did give him a most flaming character! +I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal +master, I suppose, and _that_, in the eye of a servant, comprehends +every virtue.” + +Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of +his behaviour to Wickham; and, therefore, gave them to understand, in as +guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his +relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different +construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor +Wickham’s so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In +confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary +transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming +her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on. + +Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned: but as they were now +approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to +the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out +to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of +anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning’s walk, they had +no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former +acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an +intercourse renewed after many years’ discontinuance. + +The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth +much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing +but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy’s civility, and, above +all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit +her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently, +resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. +But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own +arrival at Lambton these visitors came. They had been walking about the +place with some of their new friends, and were just returned to the inn +to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a +carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and lady in a +curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth, immediately recognizing the +livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of surprise +to her relations, by acquainting them with the honour which she +expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment +of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many +of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on +the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they now felt +that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such +a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these +newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of +Elizabeth’s feelings was every moment increasing. She was quite amazed +at her own discomposure; but, amongst other causes of disquiet, she +dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in +her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally +suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her. + +She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked +up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of +inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse. + +Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction +took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new +acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her +being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; +but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was +only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from +her beyond a monosyllable. + +Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though +little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance +womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother, but there +was sense and good-humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly +unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as +acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much +relieved by discerning such different feelings. + +They had not been long together before Darcy told her that Bingley was +also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her +satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley’s quick step +was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All +Elizabeth’s anger against him had been long done away; but had she still +felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected +cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He +inquired in a friendly, though general, way, after her family, and +looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done. + +To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage +than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before +them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just +arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece, directed their observation towards +each with an earnest, though guarded, inquiry; and they soon drew from +those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what +it was to love. Of the lady’s sensations they remained a little in +doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was +evident enough. + +Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the +feelings of each of her visitors, she wanted to compose her own, and to +make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she +feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom +she endeavoured to give pleasure were pre-possessed in her favour. +Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be +pleased. + +[Illustration: + + “To make herself agreeable to all” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and oh! +how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a +like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on +former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion +that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, +though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his +behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No +look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing +occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On +this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances +occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted +a recollection of Jane, not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of +saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He +observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and +in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long +time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could +reply, he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the +26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.” + +Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards +took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether +_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, +nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which +gave them meaning. + +It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but +whenever she did catch a glimpse she saw an expression of general +complaisance, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far +removed from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her +that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed, +however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one +day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance, and courting the +good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would +have been a disgrace; when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, +but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected +their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage, the difference, the +change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could +hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the +company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations +at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from +self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could +result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the +acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw +down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and +Rosings. + +Their visitors stayed with them above half an hour; and when they arose +to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing +their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner +at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a +diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, +readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing +how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its +acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming, however, +that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than +any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of +society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for +her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on. + +Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth +again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to +make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all +this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased; and +on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their +visitors left them, capable of considering the last half hour with some +satisfaction, though while it was passing the enjoyment of it had been +little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her +uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their +favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress. + +But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner’s curiosity; it was +not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was +much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; +it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to +interest, but nothing to justify inquiry. + +Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far +as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could +not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character +from their own feelings and his servant’s report, without any reference +to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known +would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, +however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible +that the authority of a servant, who had known him since he was four +years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be +hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of +their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had +nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, +it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market town +where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he +was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor. + +With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held +there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the +son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known +fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind +him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged. + +As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than +the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not +long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion; and +she lay awake two whole hours, endeavouring to make them out. She +certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she +had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, +that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his +valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some +time ceased to be repugnant to her feelings; and it was now heightened +into somewhat of a friendlier nature by the testimony so highly in his +favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, +which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, +there was a motive within her of good-will which could not be +overlooked. It was gratitude;--gratitude, not merely for having once +loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the +petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the +unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been +persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this +accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance; and +without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, +where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good +opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such +a change in a man of so much pride excited not only astonishment but +gratitude--for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and, as +such, its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no +means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, +she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his +welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to +depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both +that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still +possessed, of bringing on the renewal of his addresses. + +It had been settled in the evening, between the aunt and niece, that +such a striking civility as Miss Darcy’s, in coming to them on the very +day of her arrival at Pemberley--for she had reached it only to a late +breakfast--ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by +some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it +would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following +morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when +she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply. + +Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been +renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting +some of the gentlemen at Pemberley by noon. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Engaged by the river” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + + +[Illustration] + +Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley’s dislike of her had +originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how very unwelcome +her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know +with how much civility on that lady’s side the acquaintance would now +be renewed. + +On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, +whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows, +opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody +hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts +which were scattered over the intermediate lawn. + +In this room they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there +with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in +London. Georgiana’s reception of them was very civil, but attended with +all that embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the +fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves +inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and +her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her. + +By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a courtesy; and +on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, +succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a +genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind +of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the +others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from +Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she +wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a +short sentence, when there was least danger of its being heard. + +Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, +and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without +calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her +from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an +inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity +of saying much: her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every +moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room: she wished, she +feared, that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether +she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After +sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour, without hearing Miss +Bingley’s voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold +inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal +indifference and brevity, and the other said no more. + +The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the +entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the +finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a +significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been +given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole +party; for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the +beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches, soon collected +them round the table. + +While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether +she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the +feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but +a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to +regret that he came. + +He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other +gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river; and had left him +only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to +Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear, than Elizabeth wisely +resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed;--a resolution the more +necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she +saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, +and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour +when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive +curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley’s, in spite of the +smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its +objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions +to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother’s +entrance, exerted herself much more to talk; and Elizabeth saw that he +was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded, +as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss +Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the +first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility,-- + +“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire militia removed from Meryton? +They must be a great loss to _your_ family.” + +In Darcy’s presence she dared not mention Wickham’s name: but Elizabeth +instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the +various recollections connected with him gave her a moment’s distress; +but, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she +presently answered the question in a tolerably disengaged tone. While +she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy with a heightened +complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with +confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what +pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have +refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose +Elizabeth, by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed +her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in +Darcy’s opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies +and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with +that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy’s +meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy +was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley’s connections +her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from that very wish +which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming +hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan; and without +meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss +Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern +for the welfare of his friend. + +Elizabeth’s collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and +as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to +Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able +to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely +recollected her interest in the affair; and the very circumstance which +had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have +fixed them on her more and more cheerfully. + +Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above +mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage, +Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth’s +person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her +brother’s recommendation was enough to insure her favour: his judgment +could not err; and he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth, as to leave +Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and +amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help +repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister. + +“How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she cried: “I +never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. +She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we +should not have known her again.” + +However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented +himself with coolly replying, that he perceived no other alteration than +her being rather tanned,--no miraculous consequence of travelling in the +summer. + +“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see +any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no +brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants +character; there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are +tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which +have sometimes been called so fine, I never could perceive anything +extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not +like at all; and in her air altogether, there is a self-sufficiency +without fashion, which is intolerable.” + +Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not +the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always +wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the +success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however; and, from a +determination of making him speak, she continued,-- + +“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all +were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect +your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘_She_ +a beauty! I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards she +seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at +one time.” + +“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_ +was only when I first knew her; for it is many months since I have +considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.” + +He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of +having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself. + +Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their +visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them +both. The looks and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, +except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked +of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit, of everything but +himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of +him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece’s +beginning the subject. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +Chapter XLVI. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from +Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been +renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on +the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the +receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that +it had been mis-sent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as +Jane had written the direction remarkably ill. + +They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her +uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by +themselves. The one mis-sent must be first attended to; it had been +written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their +little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; +but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident +agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:-- + +“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a +most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be +assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. +An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, +from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland +with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our +surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am +very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing +to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. +Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and +let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is +disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. +Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How +thankful am I, that we never let them know what has been said against +him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about +twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at +eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have +passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect +him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of +their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor +mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly +know what I have written.” + +Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing +what she felt, Elizabeth, on finishing this letter, instantly seized the +other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it +had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first. + +“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I +wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my +head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest +Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, +and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as a marriage between Mr. Wickham +and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has +taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone +to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the +day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia’s short +letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna +Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. +never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated +to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B., +intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but +no farther; for on entering that place, they removed into a +hackney-coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. +All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the +London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible +inquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, +anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet +and Hatfield, but without any success,--no such people had been seen to +pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and +broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. +I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F.; but no one can throw any +blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and +mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many +circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married +privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if _he_ +could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia’s connections, +which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? +Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed +to depend upon their marriage: he shook his head when I expressed my +hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother +is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be +better, but this is not to be expected; and as to my father, I never in +my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed +their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot +wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared +something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is +over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, +however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen +again to do, what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances +are such, that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as +soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not +afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of +the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, +to try to discover her. What he means to do, I am sure I know not; but +his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the +best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton +again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence my uncle’s advice and +assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately +comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.” + +“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat +as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a +moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door, it was +opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and +impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself +enough to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia’s +situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. +I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment on business that cannot be delayed; +I have not an instant to lose.” + +“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than +politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; +but let me, or let the servant, go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are +not well enough; you cannot go yourself.” + +Elizabeth hesitated; but her knees trembled under her, and she felt how +little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back +the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an +accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and +mistress home instantly. + +On his quitting the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and +looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, +or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, +“Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you +present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.” + +“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There +is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well, I am only distressed by +some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.” + +She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could +not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say +something indistinctly of his + +[Illustration: + + “I have not an instant to lose” +] + +concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke +again. “I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It +cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her +friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of--of Mr. +Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too +well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that +can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.” + +Darcy was fixed in astonishment. + +“When I consider,” she added, in a yet more agitated voice, “that _I_ +might have prevented it! _I_ who knew what he was. Had I but explained +some part of it only--some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had +his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all, +all too late now.” + +“I am grieved, indeed,” cried Darcy: “grieved--shocked. But is it +certain, absolutely certain?” + +“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced +almost to London, but not beyond: they are certainly not gone to +Scotland.” + +“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?” + +“My father has gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle’s +immediate assistance, and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But +nothing can be done; I know very well that nothing can be done. How is +such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have +not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!” + +Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence. + +“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character, oh! had I known what +I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too +much. Wretched, wretched mistake!” + +Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up +and down the room in earnest meditation; his brow contracted, his air +gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power +was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family +weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither +wonder nor condemn; but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing +consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It +was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own +wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved +him, as now, when all love must be vain. + +But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the +humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all--soon swallowed up +every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, +Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of +several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the +voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke +compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said,-- + +“I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything +to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. +Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part, +that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment +you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. +This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister’s having the +pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.” + +“Oh, yes! Be so kind as to apologize for us to Miss Darcy. Say that +urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as +long as it is possible. I know it cannot be long.” + +He readily assured her of his secrecy, again expressed his sorrow for +her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present +reason to hope, and, leaving his compliments for her relations, with +only one serious parting look, went away. + +As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they +should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had +marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a +retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of +contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those +feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would +formerly have rejoiced in its termination. + +If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth’s +change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if +otherwise, if the regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or +unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a +first interview with its object, and even before two words have been +exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given +somewhat of a trial to the latter method, in her partiality for Wickham, +and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorize her to seek the other +less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go +with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia’s infamy must +produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched +business. Never since reading Jane’s second letter had she entertained a +hope of Wickham’s meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, +could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least +of all her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first +letter remained on her mind, she was all surprise, all astonishment, +that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry +for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared +incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment +as this, she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not +suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement, without the +intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither +her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy +prey. + +She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that +Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia had +wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one +officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions +raised them in her opinion. Her affections had been continually +fluctuating, but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and +mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now +feel it! + +She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to +share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a +family so deranged; a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and +requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing +could be done for Lydia, her uncle’s interference seemed of the utmost +importance, and till he entered the room the misery of her impatience +was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing, +by the servant’s account, that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but +satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the +cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on +the postscript of the last with trembling energy. Though Lydia had never +been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be +deeply affected. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after +the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner readily +promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no +less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated +by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily +settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be +done about Pemberley?” cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was +here when you sent for us;--was it so?” + +“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. +_That_ is all settled.” + +“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to +prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real +truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!” + +But wishes were vain; or, at best, could serve only to amuse her in the +hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure +to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was +impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of +business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to +be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their +sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. +Gardiner, meanwhile, having settled his account at the inn, nothing +remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of +the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could +have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “The first pleasing earnest of their welcome” +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + + +[Illustration] + +“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they +drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much +more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does of the +matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form +such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or +friendless, and who was actually staying in his Colonel’s family, that I +am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends +would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the +regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is +not adequate to the risk.” + +“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment. + +“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle’s +opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and +interest, for him to be guilty of it. I cannot think so very ill of +Wickham. Can you, yourself, Lizzie, so wholly give him up, as to believe +him capable of it?” + +“Not perhaps of neglecting his own interest. But of every other neglect +I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not +hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland, if that had been the +case?” + +“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof +that they are not gone to Scotland.” + +“Oh, but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a +presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the +Barnet road.” + +“Well, then,--supposing them to be in London--they may be there, though +for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptionable purpose. It is +not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it +might strike them that they could be more economically, though less +expeditiously, married in London, than in Scotland.” + +“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their +marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular +friend, you see by Jane’s account, was persuaded of his never intending +to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He +cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia, what attractions has she +beyond youth, health, and good humour, that could make him for her sake +forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what +restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a +dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know +nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your +other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no +brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father’s +behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever +seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would +do as little and think as little about it, as any father could do, in +such a matter.” + +“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him, +as to consent to live with him on any other terms than marriage?” + +“It does seem, and it is most shocking, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with +tears in her eyes, “that a sister’s sense of decency and virtue in such +a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. +Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young: she has never +been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half year, +nay, for a twelvemonth, she has been given up to nothing but amusement +and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle +and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. +Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, +flirtation, and officers, have been in her head. She has been doing +everything in her power, by thinking and talking on the subject, to give +greater--what shall I call it?--susceptibility to her feelings; which +are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every +charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.” + +“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so ill of +Wickham, as to believe him capable of the attempt.” + +“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be +their former conduct, that she would believe capable of such an attempt, +till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what +Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every +sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is +as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.” + +“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity +as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive. + +“I do, indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you the other day +of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you, yourself, when last at +Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with +such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other +circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to +relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From +what he said of Miss Darcy, I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, +reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He +must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found +her.” + +“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you +and Jane seem so well to understand?” + +“Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw +so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was +ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home the ----shire +was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight’s time. As that was the +case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it +necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it +apparently be to anyone, that the good opinion, which all the +neighbourhood had of him, should then be overthrown? And even when it +was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of +opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could +be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a +consequence as _this_ should ensue, you may easily believe was far +enough from my thoughts.” + +“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I +suppose, to believe them fond of each other?” + +“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either +side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware +that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first +he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all +were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for +the first two months: but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular +attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and +wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, +who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.” + +It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added +to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject by +its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during +the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth’s thoughts it was never absent. +Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could +find no interval of ease or forgetfulness. + +They travelled as expeditiously as possible; and sleeping one night on +the road, reached Longbourn by dinnertime the next day. It was a comfort +to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long +expectations. + +The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing +on the steps of the house, as they entered the paddock; and when the +carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their +faces and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of +capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome. + +Elizabeth jumped out; and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, +hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running downstairs from +her mother’s apartment, immediately met her. + +Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the +eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been +heard of the fugitives. + +“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope +everything will be well.” + +“Is my father in town?” + +“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.” + +“And have you heard from him often?” + +“We have heard only once. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday, to say +that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I +particularly begged him to do. He merely added, that he should not write +again, till he had something of importance to mention.” + +“And my mother--how is she? How are you all?” + +“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly +shaken. She is upstairs, and will have great satisfaction in seeing you +all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank +Heaven! are quite well.” + +“But you--how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you +must have gone through!” + +Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their +conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were +engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of +the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and +thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears. + +When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth +had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon +found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, +however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested, had not yet +deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that +every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, +to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce the marriage. + +Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes’ +conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with +tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous +conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; +blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the +errors of her daughter must be principally owing. + +“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton +with all my family, _this_ would not have happened: but poor dear Lydia +had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out +of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their +side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing, if she had +been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have +the charge of her; but I was over-ruled, as I always am. Poor, dear +child! And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight +Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is +to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out, before he is cold +in his grave; and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what +we shall do.” + +They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after +general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her +that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. +Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia. + +“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he: “though it is right to be +prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. +It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more, we +may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, +and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as +lost. As soon as I get to town, I shall go to my brother, and make him +come home with me to Gracechurch Street, and then we may consult +together as to what is to be done.” + +“Oh, my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I +could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, +wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them +marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but +tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, +after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from +fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened +out of my wits; and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me, +such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at my +heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear +Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, +for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how +kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.” + +But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours +in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in +her hopes as her fears; and after talking with her in this manner till +dinner was on table, they left her to vent all her feelings on the +housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters. + +Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real +occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to +oppose it; for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her +tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it +better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could +most trust, should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the +subject. + +In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been +too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance +before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The +faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible +in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger +which she had herself incurred in the business, had given something more +of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was +mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance +of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table,-- + +“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. +But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of +each other the balm of sisterly consolation.” + +Then perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, +“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful +lesson:--that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable, that one +false step involves her in endless ruin, that her reputation is no less +brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in +her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.” + +Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to +make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such +kind of moral extractions from the evil before them. + +In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half an +hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the +opportunity of making any inquiries which Jane was equally eager to +satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel +of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss +Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued +the subject by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I +have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel +Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement +took place? They must have seen them together for ever.” + +“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, +especially on Lydia’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so +grieved for him. His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He +_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had +any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension +first got abroad, it hastened his journey.” + +“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of +their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?” + +“Yes; but when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of +their plan, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not +repeat his persuasion of their not marrying, and from _that_ I am +inclined to hope he might have been misunderstood before.” + +“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a +doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?” + +“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a +little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister’s happiness with him in +marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite +right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how +imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural +triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia’s last letter +she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their +being in love with each other many weeks.” + +“But not before they went to Brighton?” + +“No, I believe not.” + +“And did Colonel Forster appear to think ill of Wickham himself? Does he +know his real character?” + +“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly +did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant; and since this sad +affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt: +but I hope this may be false.” + +“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, +this could not have happened!” + +“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. + +“But to expose the former faults of any person, without knowing what +their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable.” + +“We acted with the best intentions.” + +“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia’s note to his +wife?” + +“He brought it with him for us to see.” + +Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These +were the contents:-- + + /* NIND “My dear Harriet, */ + + “You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help + laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am + missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with + who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the + world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without + him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at + Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the + surprise the greater when I write to them, and sign my name Lydia + Wickham. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for + laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my + engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will + excuse me when he knows all, and tell him I will dance with him at + the next ball we meet with great pleasure. I shall send for my + clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to + mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed + up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will + drink to our good journey. + +“Your affectionate friend, + +“LYDIA BENNET.” + + +“Oh, thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had +finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But +at least it shows that _she_ was serious in the object of her journey. +Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a +_scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!” + +“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten +minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in +such confusion!” + +“Oh, Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who +did not know the whole story before the end of the day?” + +“I do not know: I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is +very difficult. My mother was in hysterics; and though I endeavoured to +give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much +as I might have done. But the horror of what might possibly happen +almost took from me my faculties.” + +“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look +well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety +upon yourself alone.” + +“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every +fatigue, I am sure, but I did not think it right for either of them. +Kitty is slight and delicate, and Mary studies so much that her hours of +repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Philips came to Longbourn on +Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till +Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all, and Lady +Lucas has been very kind: she walked here on Wednesday morning to +condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters, if +they could be of use to us.” + +“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth: “perhaps she +_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too +little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence, +insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.” + +She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had +intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter. + +“He meant, I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where +they last changed horses, see the postilions, and try if anything could +be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the +number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come +with a fare from London; and as he thought the circumstance of a +gentleman and lady’s removing from one carriage into another might be +remarked, he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow +discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he +determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible +to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any +other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, +and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding +out even so much as this.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + The Post +] + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next +morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. +His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and +dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. +They were forced to conclude, that he had no pleasing intelligence to +send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. +Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off. + +When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant +information of what was going on; and their uncle promised, at parting, +to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn as soon as he could, to +the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only +security for her husband’s not being killed in a duel. + +Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few +days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to +her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a +great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also +visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of +cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without +reporting some fresh instance of Wickham’s extravagance or irregularity, +she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found +them. + +All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months +before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt +to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with +the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family. +Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and +everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the +appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above +half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of +her sister’s ruin still more certain; and even Jane, who believed still +less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now +come, when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before +entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some +news of them. + +Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a +letter from him: it told them, that on his arrival he had immediately +found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street. +That Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but +without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now +determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet +thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first +coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself +did not expect any success from this measure; but as his brother was +eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added, that Mr. +Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London, and +promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this +effect:-- + +“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if +possible, from some of the young man’s intimates in the regiment, +whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to +know in what part of the town he has now concealed himself. If there +were anyone that one could apply to, with a probability of gaining such +a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have +nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in +his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps +Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living better than any +other person.” + +Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference for +her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any +information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. + +She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father +and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, +however, that some of his companions in the ----shire might be able to +give more information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting +it, the application was a something to look forward to. + +Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious +part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was +the first grand object of every morning’s impatience. Through letters, +whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated; and every +succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance. + +But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for +their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane +had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, +she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his +letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as +follows:-- + + /* “My dear Sir, */ + + “I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation + in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now + suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter + from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and + myself sincerely sympathize with you, and all your respectable + family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest + kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No + arguments shall be wanting on my part, that can alleviate so severe + a misfortune; or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that + must be, of all others, most afflicting to a parent’s mind. The + death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of + this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to + suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness + of behaviour in your + + [Illustration: + +“To whom I have related the affair” + + [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, + at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, + I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally + bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an + age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in + which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by + Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. + They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one + daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others: for + who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect + themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me, + moreover, to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain + event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been + involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me advise you, then, + my dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off + your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to + reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. + +“I am, dear sir,” etc., etc. + +Mr. Gardiner did not write again, till he had received an answer from +Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. +It was not known that Wickham had a single relation with whom he kept up +any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His +former acquaintance had been numerous; but since he had been in the +militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship +with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out +as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own +finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to +his fear of discovery by Lydia’s relations; for it had just transpired +that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. +Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be +necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in the +town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner +did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family; +Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!” she cried. “This is wholly +unexpected; I had not an idea of it.” + +Mr. Gardiner added, in his letter, that they might expect to see their +father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered +spiritless by the ill success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to +his brother-in-law’s entreaty that he would return to his family and +leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable +for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did +not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering +what her anxiety for his life had been before. + +“What! is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he +will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, +and make him marry her, if he comes away?” + +As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she +and her children should go to London at the same time that Mr. Bennet +came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their +journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn. + +Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her +Derbyshire friend, that had attended her from that part of the world. +His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; +and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of +their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. +Elizabeth had received none since her return, that could come from +Pemberley. + +The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for +the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be +fairly conjectured from _that_,--though Elizabeth, who was by this time +tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware +that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of +Lydia’s infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, +one sleepless night out of two. + +When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual +philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the +habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him +away; and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of +it. + +It was not till the afternoon, when he joined them at tea, that +Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly +expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say +nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, +and I ought to feel it.” + +“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth. + +“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to +fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have +been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. +It will pass away soon enough.” + +“Do you suppose them to be in London?” + +“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?” + +“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty. + +“She is happy, then,” said her father, drily; “and her residence there +will probably be of some duration.” + +Then, after a short silence, he continued, “Lizzy, I bear you no +ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, +considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.” + +They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother’s +tea. + +“This is a parade,” cried he, “which does one good; it gives such an +elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my +library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as +I can,--or perhaps I may defer it till Kitty runs away.” + +“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty, fretfully. “If _I_ +should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.” + +“_You_ go to Brighton! I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne, +for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at least learnt to be cautious, and +you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter my house +again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely +prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are +never to stir out of doors, till you can prove that you have spent ten +minutes of every day in a rational manner.” + +Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry. + +“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good +girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of +them.” + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + + +[Illustration] + +Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking +together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper +coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their +mother, went forward to meet her; but instead of the expected summons, +when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon, +madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some +good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.” + +“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.” + +“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don’t you know +there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here +this half hour, and master has had a letter.” + +Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They +ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the +library;--their father was in neither; and they were on the point of +seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the +butler, who said,-- + +“If you are looking for my master, ma’am, he is walking towards the +little copse.” + +Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, +and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately +pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock. + +Jane, who was not so light, nor so much in the habit of running as +Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, +came up with him, and eagerly cried out,-- + +“Oh, papa, what news? what news? have you heard from my uncle?” + +“Yes, I have had a letter from him by express.” + +“Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?” + +“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from +his pocket; “but perhaps you would like to read it.” + +Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up. + +“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is +about.” + + /* RIGHT “Gracechurch Street, _Monday, August 2_. */ + +“My dear Brother, + + “At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such + as, upon the whole, I hope will give you satisfaction. Soon after + you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what + part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet. + It is enough to know they are discovered: I have seen them + both----” + + [Illustration: + +“But perhaps you would like to read it” + + [_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + “Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane: “they are married!” + + Elizabeth read on: “I have seen them both. They are not married, + nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are + willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on + your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is + required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her + equal share of the five thousand pounds, secured among your + children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, + moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your + life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, + considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as + far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by + express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You + will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham’s + circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to + be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to + say, there will be some little money, even when all his debts are + discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. + If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act + in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will + immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper + settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming + to town again; therefore stay quietly at Longbourn, and depend on + my diligence and care. Send back your answer as soon as you can, + and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my + niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will + approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as + anything more is determined on. Yours, etc. + +“EDW. GARDINER.” + +“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be +possible that he will marry her?” + +“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we have thought him,” said her +sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.” + +“And have you answered the letter?” said Elizabeth. + +“No; but it must be done soon.” + +Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he +wrote. + +“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately. +Consider how important every moment is in such a case.” + +“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble +yourself.” + +“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.” + +And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house. + +“And--may I ask?” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be +complied with.” + +“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.” + +“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man.” + +“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there +are two things that I want very much to know:--one is, how much money +your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how I am ever +to pay him.” + +“Money! my uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?” + +“I mean that no man in his proper senses would marry Lydia on so slight +a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am +gone.” + +“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me +before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh, +it must be my uncle’s doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has +distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.” + +“No,” said her father. “Wickham’s a fool if he takes her with a farthing +less than ten thousand pounds: I should be sorry to think so ill of him, +in the very beginning of our relationship.” + +“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be +repaid?” + +Mr. Bennet made no answer; and each of them, deep in thought, continued +silent till they reached the house. Their father then went to the +library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room. + +“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they +were by themselves. “How strange this is! and for _this_ we are to be +thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, +and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice! Oh, Lydia!” + +“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would +not marry Lydia, if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind +uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten +thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children +of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand +pounds?” + +“If we are ever able to learn what Wickham’s debts have been,” said +Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall +exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has +not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be +requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal +protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as +years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is +actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, +she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she +first sees my aunt!” + +“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said +Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry +her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of +thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself +they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in +time make their past imprudence forgotten.” + +“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor +I, nor anybody, can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.” + +It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood +perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, +therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make +it known to her. He was writing, and, without raising his head, coolly +replied,-- + +“Just as you please.” + +“May we take my uncle’s letter to read to her?” + +“Take whatever you like, and get away.” + +Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs +together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication +would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, +the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As +soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner’s hope of Lydia’s being soon married, +her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its +exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight as she +had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter +would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her +felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct. + +“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried: “this is delightful indeed! She will +be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My +good, kind brother! I knew how it would be--I knew he would manage +everything. How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the +clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about +them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how +much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, +Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear +Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!” + +Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of +these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. +Gardiner’s behaviour laid them all under. + +“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great +measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to +assist Mr. Wickham with money.” + +“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but +her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children +must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have +ever had anything from him except a few presents. Well! I am so happy. +In a short time, I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well +it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in +such a flutter, that I am sure I can’t write; so I will dictate, and you +write for me. We will settle with your father about the money +afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.” + +She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and +cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had +not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her +father was at leisure to be consulted. One day’s delay, she observed, +would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite +so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head. + +“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the +good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on +Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An +airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do +anything for you in Meryton? Oh! here comes Hill. My dear Hill, have you +heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall +all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.” + +Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her +congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took +refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom. Poor Lydia’s +situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she +had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward, +neither rational happiness, nor worldly prosperity could be justly +expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only +two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The spiteful old ladies” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER L. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Bennet had very often wished, before this period of his life, that, +instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum, for +the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived +him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that +respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of +honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of +prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to +be her husband might then have rested in its proper place. + +He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone +should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law; and he +was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, +and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could. + +When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly +useless; for, of course, they were to have a son. This son was to join +in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow +and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters +successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. +Bennet, for many years after Lydia’s birth, had been certain that he +would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too +late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy; and her +husband’s love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their +income. + +Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and +the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the +latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with +regard to Lydia at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet +could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In +terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though +expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect +approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the +engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed +that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be +done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present +arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser, by the +hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket +allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her +through her mother’s hands, Lydia’s expenses had been very little within +that sum. + +That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was +another very welcome surprise; for his chief wish at present was to have +as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports +of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he +naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon +despatched; for though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in +its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was +indebted to his brother; but was too angry with Lydia to send any +message to her. + +The good news quickly spread through the house; and with proportionate +speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent +philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of +conversation, had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the +happiest alternative, been secluded from the world in some distant +farm-house. But there was much to be talked of, in marrying her; and the +good-natured wishes for her well-doing, which had proceeded before from +all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton, lost but little of their spirit +in this change of circumstances, because with such a husband her misery +was considered certain. + +It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been down stairs, but on this +happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in +spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her +triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of +her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of +accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those +attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and +servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a +proper situation for her daughter; and, without knowing or considering +what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and +importance. + +“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings would quit it, or the +great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is +too far off. I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for +Purvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.” + +Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the +servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her, “Mrs. +Bennet, before you take any, or all of these houses, for your son and +daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this +neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the +imprudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.” + +A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm: it +soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, +that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his +daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of +affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend +it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable +resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege, without which her +marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all that she could believe +possible. She was more alive to the disgrace, which her want of new +clothes must reflect on her daughter’s nuptials, than to any sense of +shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they +took place. + +Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of +the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for +her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper +termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its +unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the +spot. + +She had no fear of its spreading farther, through his means. There were +few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; +but at the same time there was no one whose knowledge of a sister’s +frailty would have mortified her so much. Not, however, from any fear of +disadvantage from it individually to herself; for at any rate there +seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia’s marriage been +concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that +Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family, where to every other +objection would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest +kind with the man whom he so justly scorned. + +From such a connection she could not wonder that he should shrink. The +wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his +feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a +blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she +hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no +longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there +seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that +she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they +should meet. + +What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the +proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago would now +have been gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she +doubted not, as the most generous of his sex. But while he was mortal, +there must be a triumph. + +She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in +disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and +temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It +was an union that must have been to the advantage of both: by her ease +and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; +and from his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world, she must +have received benefit of greater importance. + +But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what +connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and +precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their +family. + +How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence she +could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to +a couple who were only brought together because their passions were +stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture. + +Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet’s +acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurances of his eagerness to +promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties +that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal +purport of his letter was to inform them, that Mr. Wickham had resolved +on quitting the militia. + +“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as his +marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in +considering a removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his +account and my niece’s. It is Mr. Wickham’s intention to go into the +Regulars; and, among his former friends, there are still some who are +able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an +ensigncy in General----’s regiment, now quartered in the north. It is +an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He +promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each +have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have +written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, +and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham +in and near Brighton with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have +pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying +similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin +a list, according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I +hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and +all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, +unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. +Gardiner that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she +leaves the south. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to +you and her mother.--Yours, etc. + +“E. GARDINER.” + +Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham’s +removal from the ----shire, as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But +Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia’s being settled in +the north, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her +company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in +Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a +pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted +with everybody, and had so many favourites. + +“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking +to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she +likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General----’s +regiment.” + +His daughter’s request, for such it might be considered, of being +admitted into her family again, before she set off for the north, +received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who +agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister’s feelings and +consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, +urged him so earnestly, yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her +and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was +prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their +mother had the satisfaction of knowing, that she should be able to show +her married daughter in the neighbourhood, before she was banished to +the north. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he +sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that, as soon +as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth +was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme; +and, had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him +would have been the last object of her wishes. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“With an affectionate smile” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + + +[Illustration] + +Their sister’s wedding-day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her +probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet +them at----, and they were to return in it by dinnertime. Their arrival +was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets--and Jane more especially, who +gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had _she_ +been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister +must endure. + +They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast-room to receive +them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to +the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, +anxious, uneasy. + +Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and +she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and +welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to +Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy, with an +alacrity which showed no doubt of their happiness. + +Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite +so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely +opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was +enough to provoke him. + +Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was +Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned +from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at +length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of +some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a +great while since she had been there. + +Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself; but his manners +were always so pleasing, that, had his character and his marriage been +exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he +claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth +had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat +down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the +impudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the +cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of +colour. + +There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither +of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near +Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, +with a good-humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her +replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the +world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led +voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for +the world. + +“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away: +it seems but a fortnight, I declare; and yet there have been things +enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure +I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I +thought it would be very good fun if I was.” + +Her father lifted up his eyes, Jane was distressed, Elizabeth looked +expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of +which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued,-- + +“Oh, mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was +afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, +so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass +next to him, and took off my glove and let my hand just rest upon the +window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and +smiled like anything.” + +Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up and ran out of the room; +and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to +the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with +anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to +her eldest sister,-- + +“Ah, Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a +married woman.” + +It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment +from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good +spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all +their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham” by +each of them; and in the meantime she went after dinner to show her ring +and boast of being married to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. + +“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the +breakfast-room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a +charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they +may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the +place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go!” + +“Very true; and if I had my will we should. But, my dear Lydia, I don’t +at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?” + +“Oh, Lord! yes; there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. +You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at +Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I +will take care to get good partners for them all.” + +“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother. + +“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters +behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the +winter is over.” + +“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not +particularly like your way of getting husbands.” + +Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham +had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join +his regiment at the end of a fortnight. + +No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and +she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and +having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to +all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did +think than such as did not. + +Wickham’s affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to +find it; not equal to Lydia’s for him. She had scarcely needed her +present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that +their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love rather +than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring +for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain +that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and +if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity +of having a companion. + +Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every +occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did +everything best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds +on the first of September than anybody else in the country. + +One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two +elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth,-- + +“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were +not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you +curious to hear how it was managed?” + +“No, really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little +said on the subject.” + +“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were +married, you know, at St. Clement’s, because Wickham’s lodgings were in +that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven +o’clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others +were to meet us at the church. + +“Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, +you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should +have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was +dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a +sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was +thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether +he would be married in his blue coat. + +“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual: I thought it would never +be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand that my uncle and aunt +were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you’ll believe +me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a +fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything! To be sure, London was +rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. + +“Well, and so, just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was +called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you +know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so +frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; +and if we were beyond the hour we could not be married all day. But, +luckily, he came back again in ten minutes’ time, and then we all set +out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented +going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as +well.” + +“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. + +“Oh, yes! he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But, gracious me! +I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised +them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!” + +“If it was to be a secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the +subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.” + +“Oh, certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will +ask you no questions.” + +“Thank you,” said Lydia; “for if you did, I should certainly tell you +all, and then Wickham would be so angry.” + +On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her +power, by running away. + +But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it +was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her +sister’s wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, +where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. +Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her +brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as +placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She +could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, +wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what +Lydia had dropped, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been +intended. + +“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be to +know how a person unconnected with any of us, and, comparatively +speaking, a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such +a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is, +for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to +think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with +ignorance.” + +“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, and she finished the +letter; “and, my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable +manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it +out.” + +Jane’s delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to +Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of +it:--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any +satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“I am sure she did not listen.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as +soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it, than +hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be +interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches, and prepared to be +happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not +contain a denial. + + /* RIGHT “Gracechurch Street, _Sept. 6_. */ + +“My dear Niece, + + “I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole + morning to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will + not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself + surprised by your application; I did not expect it from _you_. + Don’t think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know, + that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on _your_ + side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my + impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am; and nothing + but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed + him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and + ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming + home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. + Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all + over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked + as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he + had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he + had seen and talked with them both--Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. + From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after + ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for + them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to + himself that Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as + to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or + confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken + pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to + lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to + speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step + forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on + by himself. If he _had another_ motive, I am sure it would never + disgrace him. He had been some days in town before he was able to + discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was + more than _we_ had; and the consciousness of this was another + reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a + Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was + dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though + he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward Street, + and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. + Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he + went to her for intelligence of him, as soon as he got to town. But + it was two or three days before he could get from her what he + wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery + and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be + found. Wickham, indeed, had gone to her on their first arrival in + London; and had she been able to receive them into her house, they + would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our + kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in ---- + Street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. + His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade + her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her + friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, + offering his assistance as far as it would go. But he found Lydia + absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none + of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of + leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or + other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her + feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a + marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he + easily learnt had never been _his_ design. He confessed himself + obliged to leave the regiment on account of some debts of honour + which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill + consequences of Lydia’s flight on her own folly alone. He meant to + resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, + he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but + he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live + on. Mr. Darcy asked why he did not marry your sister at once. + Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have + been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been + benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, + that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making + his fortune by marriage, in some other country. Under such + circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the + temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there + was much to be discussed. Wickham, of course, wanted more than he + could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Everything + being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy’s next step was to make + your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch + Street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not + be seen; and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father + was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did + not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly + consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him + till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, + and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called + on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your + uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk + together. They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It + was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express + was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I + fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, + after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times; + but _this_ is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not + do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, + therefore say nothing about it) your uncle would most readily have + settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which + was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it + deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead + of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up + with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely + against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning + gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that + would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where + it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no further than yourself, or + Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done + for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I + believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another + thousand in addition to her own settled upon _her_, and his + commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him + alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his + reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham’s character + had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been + received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in + _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody’s_ + reserve can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this + fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that + your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit + for _another interest_ in the affair. When all this was resolved + on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at + Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more + when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to + receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you everything. + It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I + hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to + us, and Wickham had constant admission to the house. _He_ was + exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I + would not tell you how little I was satisfied with _her_ behaviour + while she stayed with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane’s letter + last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a + piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no + fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, + representing to her the wickedness of what she had done, and all + the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it + was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes + quite provoked; but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, + and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual + in his return, and, as Lydia imformed you, attended the wedding. He + dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on + Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear + Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold + enough to say before) how much I like him? His behaviour to us has, + in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. + His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but + a little more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his + wife may teach him. I thought him very sly; he hardly ever + mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive + me, if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so + far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I + have been all round the park. A low phaeton with a nice little pair + of ponies would be the very thing. But I must write no more. The + children have been wanting me this half hour. + +“Yours, very sincerely, + +“M. GARDINER.” + + +The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, +in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the +greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had +produced, of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her +sister’s match--which she had feared to encourage, as an exertion of +goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be +just, from the pain of obligation--were proved beyond their greatest +extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken +on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a +research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he +must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently +meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe the man whom he always +most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to +pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard +nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it +was a hope shortly checked by other considerations; and she soon felt +that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his +affection for her, for a woman who had already refused him, as able to +overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with +Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from +the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think +how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no +extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel +he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising +it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, +she could perhaps believe, that remaining partiality for her might +assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be +materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that +they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a +return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, everything to +him. Oh, how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she +had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards +him! For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him,--proud that +in a cause of compassion and honour he had been able to get the better +of himself. She read over her aunt’s commendation of him again and +again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible +of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly +both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence +subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself. + +She was roused from her seat and her reflections, by someone’s approach; +and, before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by +Wickham. + +“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he, +as he joined her. + +“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow +that the interruption must be unwelcome.” + +“I should be sorry, indeed, if it were. _We_ were always good friends, +and now we are better.” + +“True. Are the others coming out?” + +“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to +Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that +you have actually seen Pemberley.” + +She replied in the affirmative. + +“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much +for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the +old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of +me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.” + +“Yes, she did.” + +“And what did she say?” + +“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned +out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely +misrepresented.” + +“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had +silenced him; but he soon afterwards said,-- + +“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other +several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.” + +“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said +Elizabeth. “It must be something particular to take him there at this +time of year.” + +“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I +understood from the Gardiners that you had.” + +“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.” + +“And do you like her?” + +“Very much.” + +“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year +or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad +you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.” + +“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.” + +“Did you go by the village of Kympton?” + +“I do not recollect that we did.” + +“I mention it because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most +delightful place! Excellent parsonage-house! It would have suited me in +every respect.” + +“How should you have liked making sermons?” + +“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and +the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine; but, +to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the +retirement of such a life, would have answered all my ideas of +happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the +circumstance when you were in Kent?” + +“I _have_ heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was +left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.” + +“You have! Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the +first, you may remember.” + +“I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time when sermon-making was not so +palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually +declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business +had been compromised accordingly.” + +“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember +what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.” + +They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast +to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister’s sake, to provoke him, +she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile,-- + +“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us +quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one +mind.” + +She held out her hand: he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though +he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“Mr. Darcy with him.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation, that he +never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, +by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she +had said enough to keep him quiet. + +The day of his and Lydia’s departure soon came; and Mrs. Bennet was +forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means +entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to +continue at least a twelvemonth. + +“Oh, my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?” + +“Oh, Lord! I don’t know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.” + +“Write to me very often, my dear.” + +“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for +writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to +do.” + +Mr. Wickham’s adieus were much more affectionate than his wife’s. He +smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things. + +“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of +the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us +all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas +himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.” + +The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days. + +“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with +one’s friends. One seems so forlorn without them.” + +“This is the consequence, you see, madam, of marrying a daughter,” said +Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are +single.” + +“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married; +but only because her husband’s regiment happens to be so far off. If +that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.” + +But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly +relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an +article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper +at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her +master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several +weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and +smiled, and shook her head, by turns. + +“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs. +Philips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not that +I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I +never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to +Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen? But that +is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention +a word about it. And so, it is quite certain he is coming?” + +“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nichols was in +Meryton last night: I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose +to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certainly true. He +comes down on Thursday, at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was +going to the butcher’s, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on +Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.” + +Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing +colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to +Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said,-- + +“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present +report; and I know I appeared distressed; but don’t imagine it was from +any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that +I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect +me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes +alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of +_myself_, but I dread other people’s remarks.” + +Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in +Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no +other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial +to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming +there _with_ his friend’s permission, or being bold enough to come +without it. + +“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot come +to a house, which he has legally hired, without raising all this +speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.” + +In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her +feelings, in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily +perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, +more unequal, than she had often seen them. + +The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, +about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again. + +“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you +will wait on him, of course.” + +“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I +went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in +nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool’s errand again.” + +His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention +would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to +Netherfield. + +“’Tis an _etiquette_ I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let +him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend _my_ hours in +running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back +again.” + +“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait +on him. But, however, that shan’t prevent my asking him to dine here, I +am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will +make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for +him.” + +Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her +husband’s incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her +neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before +_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,-- + +“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It +would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference; but I can +hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well; +but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she +says. Happy shall I be when his stay at Netherfield is over!” + +“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it +is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction +of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have +always so much.” + +Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, +contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety +and fretfulness on her side be as long as it could. She counted the days +that must intervene before their invitation could be sent--hopeless of +seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in +Hertfordshire, she saw him from her dressing-room window enter the +paddock, and ride towards the house. + +Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely +kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went +to the window--she looked--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down +again by her sister. + +“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?” + +“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not +know.” + +“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with +him before. Mr. what’s his name--that tall, proud man.” + +“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of +Mr. Bingley’s will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must +say that I hate the very sight of him.” + +Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little +of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness +which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time +after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable +enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their +mother talked on of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be +civil to him only as Mr. Bingley’s friend, without being heard by either +of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not yet be +suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to show Mrs. +Gardiner’s letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards +him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, +and whose merits she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive +information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted +for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an +interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just, as +what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his +coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, +was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered +behaviour in Derbyshire. + +The colour which had been driven from her face returned for half a +minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to +her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and +wishes must still be unshaken; but she would not be secure. + +“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early +enough for expectation.” + +She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to +lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her +sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little +paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the +gentlemen’s appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with +tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any +symptom of resentment, or any unnecessary complaisance. + +Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down +again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She +had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious as usual; and, +she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as +she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps, he could not in her +mother’s presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a +painful, but not an improbable, conjecture. + +Bingley she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period +saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. +Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, +especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of +her courtesy and address of his friend. + +Elizabeth particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the +preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was +hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill +applied. + +Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did--a question +which she could not answer without confusion--said scarcely anything. He +was not seated by her: perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but +it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends +when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed, without +bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist +the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often +found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but +the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when +they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry +with herself for being so. + +“Could I expect it to be otherwise?” said she. “Yet why did he come?” + +She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to +him she had hardly courage to speak. + +She inquired after his sister, but could do no more. + +“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet. + +He readily agreed to it. + +“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say, +you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope +it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood +since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled: and one of my +own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have +seen it in the papers. It was in the ‘Times’ and the ‘Courier,’ I know; +though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, +George Wickham, Esq., to Miss Lydia Bennet,’ without there being a +syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. +It was my brother Gardiner’s drawing up, too, and I wonder how he came +to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?” + +Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth +dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could +not tell. + +“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” +continued her mother; “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very +hard to have her taken away from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a +place quite northward it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not +know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of +his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the Regulars. +Thank heaven! he has _some_ friends, though, perhaps, not so many as he +deserves.” + +Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery +of shame that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, +the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done +before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the +country at present. A few weeks, he believed. + +“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother, +“I beg you will come here and shoot as many as you please on Mr. +Bennet’s manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and +will save all the best of the coveys for you.” + +Elizabeth’s misery increased at such unnecessary, such officious +attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had +flattered them a year ago, everything, she was persuaded, would be +hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt, +that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for +moments of such painful confusion. + +“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to be +in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure +that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either +one or the other again!” + +Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no +compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing +how much the beauty of her sister rekindled the admiration of her former +lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little, but every +five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her +as handsome as she had been last year; as good-natured, and as +unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no +difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded +that she talked as much as ever; but her mind was so busily engaged, +that she did not always know when she was silent. + +When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her +intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at +Longbourn in a few days’ time. + +“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added; “for when +you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with +us as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you +I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your +engagement.” + +Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of +his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away. + +Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine +there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did +not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man +on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride +of one who had ten thousand a year. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Jane happened to look round” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + + +[Illustration] + +As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; +or, in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects +which must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy’s behaviour astonished and vexed +her. + +“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she, +“did he come at all?” + +She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. + +“He could be still amiable, still pleasing to my uncle and aunt, when he +was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he +no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing man! I will think +no more about him.” + +Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach +of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look which showed her +better satisfied with their visitors than Elizabeth. + +“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly +easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by +his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly +seen, that on both sides we meet only as common and indifferent +acquaintance.” + +“Yes, very indifferent, indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane! +take care.” + +“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak as to be in danger now.” + +“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with +you as ever.” + +They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in +the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes which the +good-humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour’s visit, +had revived. + +On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two +who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as +sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the +dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take +the place which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by +her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to +invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to +hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was +decided. He placed himself by her. + +Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He +bore it with noble indifference; and she would have imagined that +Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes +likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing +alarm. + +His behaviour to her sister was such during dinnertime as showed an +admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded +Elizabeth, that, if left wholly to himself, Jane’s happiness, and his +own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the +consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It +gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in +no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table +could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little +such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to +advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse; but +she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and +cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother’s ungraciousness +made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth’s mind; +and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell +him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of +the family. + +She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of +bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away +without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, +than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and +uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room before the gentlemen +came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. +She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her +chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. + +“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him up for +ever.” + +The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have +answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, +where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, +in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her +which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen’s approaching, one of +the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper,-- + +“The men shan’t come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them; +do we?” + +Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with +her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough +to help anybody to coffee, and then was enraged against herself for +being so silly! + +“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to +expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex who would not +protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? +There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings.” + +She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee-cup +himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying,-- + +“Is your sister at Pemberley still?” + +“Yes; she will remain there till Christmas.” + +“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?” + +“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough +these three weeks.” + +She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse +with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for +some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady’s whispering +to Elizabeth again, he walked away. + +When the tea things were removed, and the card tables placed, the ladies +all rose; and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when +all her views were overthrown, by seeing him fall a victim to her +mother’s rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated +with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. +They were confined for the evening at different tables; and she had +nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side +of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself. + +Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to +supper; but their carriage was, unluckily, ordered before any of the +others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them. + +“Well, girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “what +say you to the day? I think everything has passed off uncommonly well, I +assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The +venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said, they never saw so fat +a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the +Lucases’ last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged that the partridges +were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French +cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater +beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And +what do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her +at Netherfield at last!’ She did, indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as +good a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved +girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.” + +[Illustration: + + “M^{rs}. Long and her nieces.” +] + +Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits: she had seen enough of +Bingley’s behaviour to Jane to be convinced that she would get him at +last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy +humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at +not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals. + +“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The +party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we +may often meet again.” + +Elizabeth smiled. + +“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I +assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an +agreeable and sensible young man without having a wish beyond it. I am +perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had +any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with +greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally +pleasing, than any other man.” + +“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and +are provoking me to it every moment.” + +“How hard it is in some cases to be believed! And how impossible in +others! But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I +acknowledge?” + +“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to +instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive +me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make _me_ your +confidante.” + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you.” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + + +[Illustration] + +A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His +friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in +ten days’ time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably +good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many +expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere. + +“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.” + +He should be particularly happy at any time, etc., etc.; and if she +would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on +them. + +“Can you come to-morrow?” + +Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was +accepted with alacrity. + +He came, and in such very good time, that the ladies were none of them +dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughters’ room, in her +dressing-gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out,-- + +“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is +come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss +Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss +Lizzy’s hair.” + +“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is +forwarder than either of us, for she went upstairs half an hour ago.” + +“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come, be quick, be quick! +where is your sash, my dear?” + +But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down +without one of her sisters. + +The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the +evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his +custom, and Mary went upstairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the +five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at +Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any +impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last +Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter, mamma? What do +you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?” + +“Nothing, child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still +five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she +suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty,-- + +“Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. +Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such +premeditation, and her entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a +few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half opened the door and called out,-- + +“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.” + +Elizabeth was forced to go. + +“We may as well leave them by themselves, you know,” said her mother as +soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in +my dressing-room.” + +Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained +quietly in the hall till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned +into the drawing-room. + +Mrs. Bennet’s schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was +everything that was charming, except the professed lover of her +daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable +addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged +officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a +forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the +daughter. + +He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away +an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet’s +means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband. + +After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed +between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the +happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy +returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably +persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman’s +concurrence. + +Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the +morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more +agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption +or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into +silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the +other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; +and in the evening Mrs. Bennet’s invention was again at work to get +everybody away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to +write, went into the breakfast-room for that purpose soon after tea; for +as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be +wanted to counteract her mother’s schemes. + +But on her returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, +she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her +mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she +perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as +if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, +the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each +other, would have told it all. _Their_ situation was awkward enough; but +_hers_ she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by +either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when +Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and, +whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room. + +Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give +pleasure; and, instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest +emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world. + +“’Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh, +why is not everybody as happy?” + +Elizabeth’s congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a +delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of +kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not +allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be +said, for the present. + +“I must go instantly to my mother,” she cried. “I would not on any +account trifle with her affectionate solicitude, or allow her to hear it +from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh, Lizzy, to +know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear +family! how shall I bear so much happiness?” + +She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the +card-party, and was sitting upstairs with Kitty. + +Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease +with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many +previous months of suspense and vexation. + +“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend’s anxious +circumspection! of all his sister’s falsehood and contrivance! the +happiest, wisest, and most reasonable end!” + +In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her +father had been short and to the purpose. + +“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door. + +“With my mother upstairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.” + +He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes +and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her +delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with +great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen +to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane’s perfections; +and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his +expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for +basis the excellent understanding and super-excellent disposition of +Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and +himself. + +It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of +Miss Bennet’s mind gave such a glow of sweet animation to her face, as +made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped +her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent, or +speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, +though she talked to Bingley of nothing else, for half an hour; and when +Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed +how really happy he was. + +Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their +visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he +turned to his daughter and said,-- + +“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.” + +Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his +goodness. + +“You are a good girl,” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in +thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your +doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are +each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so +easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will +always exceed your income.” + +“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be +unpardonable in _me_.” + +“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you +talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely +more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh, my dear, dear Jane, I am so +happy! I am sure I shan’t get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it +would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not +be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when +he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was +that you should come together. Oh, he is the handsomest young man that +ever was seen!” + +Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her +favourite child. At that moment she cared for no other. Her younger +sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness +which she might in future be able to dispense. + +Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty +begged very hard for a few balls there every winter. + +Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; +coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after +supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough +detested, had given him an invitation to dinner, which he thought +himself obliged to accept. + +Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for +while he was present Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else: but +she found herself considerably useful to both of them, in those hours of +separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always +attached himself to Elizabeth for the pleasure of talking of her; and +when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief. + +“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he +was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed +it possible.” + +“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for +it?” + +“It must have been his sisters’ doing. They were certainly no friends to +his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have +chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, +as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will +learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again: though we +can never be what we once were to each other.” + +“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever +heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again +the dupe of Miss Bingley’s pretended regard.” + +“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November he +really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being indifferent +would have prevented his coming down again?” + +“He made a little mistake, to be sure; but it is to the credit of his +modesty.” + +This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and +the little value he put on his own good qualities. + +Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference +of his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving +heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice +her against him. + +“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried +Jane. “Oh, Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed +above them all? If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such +another man for you!” + +“If you were to give me forty such men I never could be so happy as you. +Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your +happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very +good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.” + +The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a +secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Philips, and +she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her +neighbours in Meryton. + +The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the +world; though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, +they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + + +[Illustration] + +One morning, about a week after Bingley’s engagement with Jane had been +formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the +dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the +sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the +lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors; and besides, the +equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses +were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who +preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that +somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid +the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the +shrubbery. They both set off; and the conjectures of the remaining three +continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown +open, and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh. + +They were of course all intending to be surprised: but their +astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. +Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even +inferior to what Elizabeth felt. + +She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no +other reply to Elizabeth’s salutation than a slight inclination of the +head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her +name to her mother on her Ladyship’s entrance, though no request of +introduction had been made. + +Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such +high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting +for a moment in silence, she said, very stiffly, to Elizabeth,-- + +“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your +mother?” + +Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was. + +“And _that_, I suppose, is one of your sisters?” + +“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. +“She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, +and my eldest is somewhere about the ground, walking with a young man, +who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.” + +“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine, after a +short silence. + +“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my Lady, I dare say; but, I +assure you, it is much larger than Sir William Lucas’s.” + +“This must be a most inconvenient sitting-room for the evening in +summer: the windows are full west.” + +Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner; and then +added,-- + +“May I take the liberty of asking your Ladyship whether you left Mr. and +Mrs. Collins well?” + +“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.” + +Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from +Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no +letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled. + +Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her Ladyship to take some +refreshment: but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, +declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,-- + +“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness +on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you +will favour me with your company.” + +“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her Ladyship about the +different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.” + +Elizabeth obeyed; and, running into her own room for her parasol, +attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, +Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and +drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be +decent-looking rooms, walked on. + +Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her +waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk +that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for +conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and +disagreeable. + +[Illustration: + +“After a short survey” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + +“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in +her face. + +As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following +manner:-- + +“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my +journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I +come.” + +Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment. + +“Indeed, you are mistaken, madam; I have not been at all able to account +for the honour of seeing you here.” + +“Miss Bennet,” replied her Ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to +know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may +choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been +celebrated for its sincerity and frankness; and in a cause of such +moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most +alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your +sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that +_you_--that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in all likelihood, be soon +afterwards united to my nephew--my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I +_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him +so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on +setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to +you.” + +“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring +with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming +so far. What could your Ladyship propose by it?” + +“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.” + +“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth +coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it--if, indeed, such a report +is in existence.” + +“If! do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been +industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a +report is spread abroad?” + +“I never heard that it was.” + +“And can you likewise declare, that there is no _foundation_ for it?” + +“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your Ladyship. _You_ +may ask questions which _I_ shall not choose to answer.” + +“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has +he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?” + +“Your Ladyship has declared it to be impossible.” + +“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his +reason. But _your_ arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, +have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You +may have drawn him in.” + +“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.” + +“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such +language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, +and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.” + +“But you are not entitled to know _mine_; nor will such behaviour as +this ever induce me to be explicit.” + +“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the +presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is +engaged to _my daughter_. Now, what have you to say?” + +“Only this,--that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will +make an offer to me.” + +Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,-- + +“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, +they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of +_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles we planned the +union; and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be +accomplished, is their marriage to be prevented by a young woman of +inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to +the family? Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends--to his +tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of +propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his +earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?” + +“Yes; and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no +other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be +kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry +Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the +marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by +honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make +another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?” + +“Because honour, decorum, prudence--nay, interest--forbid it. Yes, Miss +Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or +friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will +be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. +Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned +by any of us.” + +“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr. +Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily +attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause +to repine.” + +“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude +for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that +score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came +here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I +be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person’s +whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.” + +“_That_ will make your Ladyship’s situation at present more pitiable; +but it will have no effect on _me_.” + +“I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. My daughter and my +nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal +side, from the same noble line; and, on the father’s, from respectable, +honourable, and ancient, though untitled, families. Their fortune on +both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of +every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide +them?--the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, +connections, or fortune! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall +not be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to +quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.” + +“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that +sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter; so far we are +equal.” + +“True. You _are_ a gentleman’s daughter. But what was your mother? Who +are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their +condition.” + +“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew does +not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.” + +“Tell me, once for all, are you engaged to him?” + +Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady +Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a +moment’s deliberation,-- + +“I am not.” + +Lady Catherine seemed pleased. + +“And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?” + +“I will make no promise of the kind.” + +“Miss Bennet, I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more +reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I +will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the +assurance I require.” + +“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into +anything so wholly unreasonable. Your Ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry +your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make +_their_ marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to +me, would _my_ refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on +his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with +which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as +frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my +character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. +How far your nephew might approve of your interference in _his_ affairs, +I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in +mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no further on the +subject.” + +“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the +objections I have already urged I have still another to add. I am no +stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister’s infamous +elopement. I know it all; that the young man’s marrying her was a +patched-up business, at the expense of your father and uncle. And is +_such_ a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is _her_ husband, who is the son +of his late father’s steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of +what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?” + +“You can _now_ have nothing further to say,” she resentfully answered. +“You have insulted me, in every possible method. I must beg to return to +the house.” + +And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned +back. Her Ladyship was highly incensed. + +“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! +Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you +must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?” + +“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.” + +“You are then resolved to have him?” + +“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, +which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without +reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.” + +“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the +claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in +the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.” + +“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth, “has any +possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either +would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the +resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former +_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment’s +concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in +the scorn.” + +“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I +shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your +ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you +reasonable; but depend upon it I will carry my point.” + +In this manner Lady Catherine talked on till they were at the door of +the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added,-- + +“I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your +mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.” + +Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her +Ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She +heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded upstairs. Her mother +impatiently met her at the door of her dressing-room, to ask why Lady +Catherine would not come in again and rest herself. + +“She did not choose it,” said her daughter; “she would go.” + +“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously +civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well. +She is on her road somewhere, I dare say; and so, passing through +Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had +nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?” + +Elizabeth was forced to give in to a little falsehood here; for to +acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “But now it comes out” +] + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + + +[Illustration] + +The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw +Elizabeth into could not be easily overcome; nor could she for many +hours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it +appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings +for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. +Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of +their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; +till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley, +and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the +expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply +the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her +sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at +Lucas Lodge, therefore, (for through their communication with the +Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine,) had +only set _that_ down as almost certain and immediate which _she_ had +looked forward to as possible at some future time. + +In revolving Lady Catherine’s expressions, however, she could not help +feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting +in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to +prevent the marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an +application to her nephew; and how he might take a similar +representation of the evils attached to a connection with her she dared +not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his +aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose +that he thought much higher of her Ladyship than _she_ could do; and it +was certain, that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_ +whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would +address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would +probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak +and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning. + +If he had been wavering before, as to what he should do, which had often +seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might +settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity +unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady +Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to +Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. + +“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his +friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to understand +it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his +constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might +have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him +at all.” + +The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had +been, was very great: but they obligingly satisfied it with the same +kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet’s curiosity; and +Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject. + +The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her +father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. + +“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you: come into my room.” + +She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell +her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner +connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might +be from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the +consequent explanations. + +She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He +then said,-- + +“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me +exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its +contents. I did not know before that I had _two_ daughters on the brink +of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.” + +The colour now rushed into Elizabeth’s cheeks in the instantaneous +conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; +and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained +himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to +herself, when her father continued,-- + +“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters +as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity to discover the +name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.” + +“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?” + +“Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with +congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of +which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping +Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience by reading what he says +on that point. What relates to yourself is as follows:--‘Having thus +offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on +this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another, +of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter +Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after +her eldest sister has resigned it; and the chosen partner of her fate +may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages +in this land.’ Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? +‘This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with everything the +heart of mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and +extensive patronage. Yet, in spite of all these temptations, let me warn +my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a +precipitate closure with this gentleman’s proposals, which, of course, +you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.’ Have you any idea, +Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out. ‘My motive for +cautioning you is as follows:--We have reason to imagine that his aunt, +Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly +eye.’ _Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_ +surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man, within +the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more +effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any +woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at _you_ in +his life! It is admirable!” + +Elizabeth tried to join in her father’s pleasantry, but could only force +one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so +little agreeable to her. + +“Are you not diverted?” + +“Oh, yes. Pray read on.” + +“‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her Ladyship last +night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she +felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that, on the score of +some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give +her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my +duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she +and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run +hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’ Mr. +Collins, moreover, adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia’s sad +business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their +living together before the marriage took place should be so generally +known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain +from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young +couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an +encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should +very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as +a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their +names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of +Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear +Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, +Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be +_missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For +what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them +in our turn?” + +“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “I am exceedingly diverted. But it is so +strange!” + +“Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man +it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference and _your_ +pointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate +writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s correspondence for any +consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving +him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and +hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine +about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?” + +To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had +been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his +repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her +feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she +would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by +what he said of Mr. Darcy’s indifference; and she could do nothing but +wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that, perhaps, instead of +his seeing too _little_, she might have fancied too _much_. + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The efforts of his aunt” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + + +[Illustration] + +Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as +Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy +with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine’s +visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to +tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in +momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed +their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the +habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five +set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to +outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy +were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was +too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a +desperate resolution; and, perhaps, he might be doing the same. + +They walked towards the Lucases’, because Kitty wished to call upon +Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, +when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the +moment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was +high, she immediately said,-- + +“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving +relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I +can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor +sister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to +acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest +of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.” + +“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise +and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a +mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner +was so little to be trusted.” + +“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia’s thoughtlessness first betrayed to +me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could +not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, +in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced +you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the +sake of discovering them.” + +“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. +That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other +inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your +_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought +only of _you_.” + +Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, +her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your +feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ +affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence +me on this subject for ever.” + +Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of +his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not +very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone +so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make +her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The +happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never +felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as +warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth +been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the +expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him: but +though she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings +which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection +every moment more valuable. + +They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to +be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She +soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding +to the efforts of his aunt, who _did_ call on him in her return through +London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the +substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on +every expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship’s apprehension, +peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that +such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from +her nephew which _she_ had refused to give. But, unluckily for her +Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise. + +“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself +to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that +had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have +acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly.” + +Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of +my _frankness_ to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so +abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all +your relations.” + +“What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your +accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour +to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was +unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.” + +“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that +evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly +examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, +improved in civility.” + +“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I +then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of +it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your +reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a +more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can +scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I +confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.” + +“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an +impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such +a way.” + +“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper +feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never +forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible +way that would induce you to accept me.” + +“Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at +all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.” + +Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he,--“did it _soon_ make you +think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its +contents?” + +She explained what its effects on her had been, and how gradually all +her former prejudices had been removed. + +“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was +necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part, +especially the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power +of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly +make you hate me.” + +“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the +preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my +opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily +changed as that implies.” + +“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly +calm and cool; but I am since convinced that it was written in a +dreadful bitterness of spirit.” + +“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The +adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings +of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely +different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance +attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my +philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you +pleasure.” + +“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. _Your_ +retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment +arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of +ignorance. But with _me_, it is not so. Painful recollections will +intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a +selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a +child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my +temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride +and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_), +I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father +particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, +almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond +my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to +_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with +my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might +still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not +owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most +advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a +doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my +pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” + +“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?” + +“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be +wishing, expecting my addresses.” + +“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure +you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me +wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening!” + +“Hate you! I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to +take a proper direction.” + +“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at +Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?” + +“No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.” + +“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you. +My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I +confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.” + +“My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility +in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped +to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you +see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes +introduced themselves, I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half +an hour after I had seen you.” + +He then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and of her +disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to +the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of +following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed +before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there +had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must +comprehend. + +She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to +each to be dwelt on farther. + +After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know +anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that +it was time to be at home. + +“What could have become of Mr. Bingley and Jane?” was a wonder which +introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with +their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of +it. + +“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth. + +“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.” + +“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And +though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much +the case. + +“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a +confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told +him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his +affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had +the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself +mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent +to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was +unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.” + +Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his +friend. + +“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him +that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?” + +“From the former. I had narrowly observed her, during the two visits +which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.” + +“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to +him.” + +“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had +prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but +his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one +thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not +allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months +last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was +angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained +in any doubt of your sister’s sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me +now.” + +Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful +friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked +herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and +it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of +Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he +continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they +parted. + + + + +[Illustration: + + “Unable to utter a syllable” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + + +[Illustration] + +“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question +which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and +from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in +reply, that they had wandered about till she was beyond her own +knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything +else, awakened a suspicion of the truth. + +The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The +acknowledged lovers talked and laughed; the unacknowledged were silent. +Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; +and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy +than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, +there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in +the family when her situation became known: she was aware that no one +liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a +_dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. + +At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far +from Miss Bennet’s general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. + +“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be! Engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, +you shall not deceive me: I know it to be impossible.” + +“This is a wretched beginning, indeed! My sole dependence was on you; +and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I +am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we +are engaged.” + +Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much +you dislike him.” + +“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I +did not always love him so well as I do now; but in such cases as these +a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever +remember it myself.” + +Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more +seriously, assured her of its truth. + +“Good heaven! can it be really so? Yet now I must believe you,” cried +Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would, I do congratulate you; but are you +certain--forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be +happy with him?” + +“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already that we +are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? +Shall you like to have such a brother?” + +“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more +delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you +really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than +marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought +to do?” + +“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do when I +tell you all.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am +afraid you will be angry.” + +“My dearest sister, now be, _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. +Let me know everything that I am to know without delay. Will you tell me +how long you have loved him?” + +“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began; +but I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds +at Pemberley.” + +Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the +desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of +attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing +further to wish. + +“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself. I +always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I +must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley’s friend and your +husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But, +Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you +tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know +of it to another, not to you.” + +Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to +mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made +her equally avoid the name of his friend: but now she would no longer +conceal from her his share in Lydia’s marriage. All was acknowledged, +and half the night spent in conversation. + +“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next +morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with +our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always +coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or +other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? +Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley’s +way.” + +Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet +was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an +epithet. + +As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and +shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; +and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes +hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?” + +“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk +to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has +never seen the view.” + +“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am +sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won’t it, Kitty?” + +Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great +curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently +consented. As she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, +saying,-- + +“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that +disagreeable man all to yourself; but I hope you will not mind it. It is +all for Jane’s sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to +him except just now and then; so do not put yourself to inconvenience.” + +During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent should be +asked in the course of the evening: Elizabeth reserved to herself the +application for her mother’s. She could not determine how her mother +would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur +would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man; but whether she +were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it +was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to +her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the +first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her +disapprobation. + +In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw +Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was +extreme. She did not fear her father’s opposition, but he was going to +be made unhappy, and that it should be through her means; that _she_, +his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be +filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her, was a wretched +reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, +looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes +he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while +pretending to admire her work, said in a whisper, “Go to your father; he +wants you in the library.” She was gone directly. + +Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. +“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses to be +accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?” + +How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more +reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from +explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; +but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion, +of her attachment to Mr. Darcy. + +“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be +sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. +But will they make you happy?” + +“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my +indifference?” + +“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but +this would be nothing if you really liked him.” + +“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes; “I love him. +Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not +know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in +such terms.” + +“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind +of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he +condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on +having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your +disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor +respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked +up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the +greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape +discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing +_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are +about.” + +Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; +and, at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the +object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her +estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that +his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many +months’ suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, +she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the +match. + +“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to +say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with +you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.” + +To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy +had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment. + +“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did everything; +made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and got him +his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble +and economy. Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must and _would_ have +paid him; but these violent young lovers carry everything their own +way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow, he will rant and storm about +his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.” + +He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before on his reading +Mr. Collins’s letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her +at last to go, saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come +for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.” + +Elizabeth’s mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after +half an hour’s quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join +the others with tolerable composure. Everything was too recent for +gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer +anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity +would come in time. + +When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her, +and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; +for, on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to +utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes, that she could +comprehend what she heard, though not in general backward to credit what +was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a +lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in +her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself. + +“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would +have thought it? And is it really true? Oh, my sweetest Lizzy! how rich +and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages +you will have! Jane’s is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so +pleased--so happy. Such a charming man! so handsome! so tall! Oh, my +dear Lizzy! pray apologize for my having disliked him so much before. I +hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Everything +that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, +Lord! what will become of me? I shall go distracted.” + +This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted; and +Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, +soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, +her mother followed her. + +“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else. Ten +thousand a year, and very likely more! ’Tis as good as a lord! And a +special licence--you must and shall be married by a special licence. +But, my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond +of, that I may have it to-morrow.” + +This was a sad omen of what her mother’s behaviour to the gentleman +himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain +possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations’ +consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow +passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood +in such awe of her intended son-in-law, that she ventured not to speak +to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark +her deference for his opinion. + +Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get +acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising +every hour in his esteem. + +“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps, +is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well +as Jane’s.” + + + + +[Illustration: + +“The obsequious civility.” + +[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]] + + + + +CHAPTER LX. + + +[Illustration] + +Elizabeth’s spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. +Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could +you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when +you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first +place?” + +“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which +laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I +knew that I _had_ begun.” + +“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour +to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke +to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be +sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?” + +“For the liveliness of your mind I did.” + +“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. +The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious +attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, +and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused and +interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really +amiable you would have hated me for it: but in spite of the pains you +took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and +in your heart you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously +courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; +and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly +reasonable. To be sure you know no actual good of me--but nobody thinks +of _that_ when they fall in love.” + +“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane, while she was +ill at Netherfield?” + +“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it +by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are +to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me +to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may +be; and I shall begin directly, by asking you what made you so unwilling +to come to the point at last? What made you so shy of me, when you +first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you +called, did you look as if you did not care about me?” + +“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.” + +“But I was embarrassed.” + +“And so was I.” + +“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.” + +“A man who had felt less might.” + +“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that +I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you +_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when +you _would_ have spoken if I had not asked you! My resolution of +thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. _Too +much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort +springs from a breach of promise, for I ought not to have mentioned the +subject? This will never do.” + +“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady +Catherine’s unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of +removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to +your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to +wait for an opening of yours. My aunt’s intelligence had given me hope, +and I was determined at once to know everything.” + +“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, +for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to +Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? +or had you intended any more serious consequences?” + +“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I +might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to +myself, was to see whether your sister was still partial to Bingley, and +if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.” + +“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to +befall her?” + +“I am more likely to want time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to +be done; and if you will give me a sheet of paper it shall be done +directly.” + +“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you, and +admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But +I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.” + +From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy +had been overrated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner’s +long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would +be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt +had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as +follows:-- + +“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, +for your long, kind, satisfactory detail of particulars; but, to say the +truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. +But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose to your fancy, +indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will +afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly +err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more +than you did in your last. I thank you again and again, for not going to +the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the +ponies is delightful. We will go round the park every day. I am the +happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so +before, but no one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she +only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that +can be spared from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. +Yours,” etc. + +Mr. Darcy’s letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style, and still +different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in return +for his last. + + /* “Dear Sir, */ + + “I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will + soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as + you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has + more to give. + +“Yours sincerely,” etc. + +Miss Bingley’s congratulations to her brother on his approaching +marriage were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to +Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former +professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and +though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much +kinder answer than she knew was deserved. + +The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information was +as sincere as her brother’s in sending it. Four sides of paper were +insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of +being loved by her sister. + +Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations +to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the +Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this +sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so +exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew’s letter, that +Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till +the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend +was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their +meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she +saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her +husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even +listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away +the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all +meeting frequently at St. James’s, with very decent composure. If he did +shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight. + +Mrs. Philips’s vulgarity was another, and, perhaps, a greater tax on his +forbearance; and though Mrs. Philips, as well as her sister, stood in +too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley’s +good-humour encouraged; yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be +vulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at +all likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to +shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to +keep him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might +converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings +arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its +pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward +with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so +little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their +family party at Pemberley. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER LXI. + + +[Illustration] + +Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got +rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she +afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be +guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the +accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of +her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, +amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though, perhaps, +it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic +felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous +and invariably silly. + +Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her +drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in +going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected. + +Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near +a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to +_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his +sisters was then gratified: he bought an estate in a neighbouring county +to Derbyshire; and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source +of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other. + +Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with +her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally +known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a +temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia’s example, she +became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less +ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia’s +society she was of course carefully kept; and though Mrs. Wickham +frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of +balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going. + +Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily +drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet’s being quite +unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but +she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no +longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters’ beauty and her own, +it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without +much reluctance. + +As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from +the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that +Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude +and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and, in spite of +everything, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be +prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which +Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage explained to her that, by +his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The +letter was to this effect:-- + + /* “My dear Lizzy, */ + + “I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half so well as I do my dear + Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you + so rich; and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will + think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very + much; and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live + upon without some help. Any place would do of about three or four + hundred a year; but, however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, + if you had rather not. + +“Yours,” etc. + +As it happened that Elizabeth had much rather not, she endeavoured in +her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. +Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice +of what might be called economy in her own private expenses, she +frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an +income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in +their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to +their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or +herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards +discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the +restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the +extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a +cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection +for her soon sunk into indifference: hers lasted a little longer; and, +in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to +reputation which her marriage had given her. Though Darcy could never +receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for Elizabeth’s sake, he assisted him +further in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when +her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the +Bingleys they both of them frequently stayed so long, that even +Bingley’s good-humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to _talk_ +of giving them a hint to be gone. + +Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy’s marriage; but as she +thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she +dropped all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as +attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility +to Elizabeth. + +Pemberley was now Georgiana’s home; and the attachment of the sisters +was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each +other, even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion +in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an +astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive manner of +talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect +which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open +pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in +her way. By Elizabeth’s instructions she began to comprehend that a +woman may take liberties with her husband, which a brother will not +always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself. + +Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; +and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character, in +her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him +language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time +all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth’s persuasion, +he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; +and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her +resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity +to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on +them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had +received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the +visits of her uncle and aunt from the city. + +With the Gardiners they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, +as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever +sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing +her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them. + + [Illustration: + + THE + END + ] + + + + + CHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. + TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. + + + + *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRIDE AND PREJUDICE *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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If you are not located in the United States, +you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located +before using this eBook. + +Title: The Great Gatsby + + +Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald + +Release date: January 17, 2021 [eBook #64317] + +Language: English + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GATSBY *** + + The Great Gatsby + by + F. Scott Fitzgerald + + + Table of Contents + +I +II +III +IV +V +VI +VII +VIII +IX + + + Once again + to + Zelda + + Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; + If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, + Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, + I must have you!” + + Thomas Parke d’Invilliers + + + I + +In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice +that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. + +“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just +remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages +that you’ve had.” + +He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative +in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more +than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a +habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me +the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to +detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal +person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of +being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, +unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have +feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by +some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on +the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least +the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and +marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of +infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I +forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly +repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out +unequally at birth. + +And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission +that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the +wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded +on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted +the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I +wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the +human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was +exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I +have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of +successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some +heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related +to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten +thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that +flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the +“creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a +romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and +which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out +all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust +floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my +interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle +Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a +clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of +Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s +brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil +War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father +carries on today. + +I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with +special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in +father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of +a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that +delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the +counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being +the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the +ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond +business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it +could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it +over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, +“Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance +me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I +thought, in the spring of twenty-two. + +The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm +season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly +trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a +house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He +found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a +month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and +I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a +few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who +made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to +herself over the electric stove. + +It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more +recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. + +“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly. + +I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, +a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the +freedom of the neighbourhood. + +And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the +trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar +conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. + +There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to +be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen +volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they +stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, +promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and +Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other +books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a +series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now +I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become +again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” +This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at +from a single window, after all. + +It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of +the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender +riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where +there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of +land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in +contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most +domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great +wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the +egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact +end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual +wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more +interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular +except shape and size. + +I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though +this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little +sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the +egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge +places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on +my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual +imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one +side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble +swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was +Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a +mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an +eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I +had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and +the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a +month. + +Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg +glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins +on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom +Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom +in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in +Chicago. + +Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of +the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a +national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute +limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of +anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his +freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago +and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for +instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake +Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was +wealthy enough to do that. + +Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for +no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully +wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a +permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe +it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift +on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of +some irrecoverable football game. + +And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East +Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house +was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white +Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at +the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, +jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when +it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though +from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French +windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm +windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with +his legs apart on the front porch. + +He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy +straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a +supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established +dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning +aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding +clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill +those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could +see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his +thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. + +His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of +fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in +it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who +had hated his guts. + +“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to +say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We +were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I +always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like +him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. + +We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. + +“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about +restlessly. + +Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the +front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half +acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped +the tide offshore. + +“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, +politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.” + +We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, +fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The +windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside +that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through +the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale +flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the +ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow +on it as wind does on the sea. + +The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous +couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an +anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were +rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a +short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments +listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a +picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the +rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the +curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the +floor. + +The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full +length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her +chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which +was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes +she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring +an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. + +The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly +forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, +charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the +room. + +“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.” + +She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my +hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was +no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she +had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was +Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people +lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less +charming.) + +At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost +imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object +she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her +something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. +Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned +tribute from me. + +I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, +thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and +down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be +played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, +bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement +in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: +a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had +done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, +exciting things hovering in the next hour. + +I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, +and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. + +“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically. + +“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel +painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all +night along the north shore.” + +“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added +irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.” + +“I’d like to.” + +“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?” + +“Never.” + +“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—” + +Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped +and rested his hand on my shoulder. + +“What you doing, Nick?” + +“I’m a bond man.” + +“Who with?” + +I told him. + +“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively. + +This annoyed me. + +“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.” + +“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at +Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something +more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.” + +At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that +I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the +room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned +and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. + +“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long +as I can remember.” + +“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to +New York all afternoon.” + +“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the +pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.” + +Her host looked at her incredulously. + +“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom +of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.” + +I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I +enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with +an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward +at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked +back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, +discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a +picture of her, somewhere before. + +“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody +there.” + +“I don’t know a single—” + +“You must know Gatsby.” + +“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?” + +Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; +wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled +me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square. + +Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two +young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward +the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the +diminished wind. + +“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her +fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She +looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day +of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in +the year and then miss it.” + +“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the +table as if she were getting into bed. + +“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me +helplessly: “What do people plan?” + +Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her +little finger. + +“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.” + +We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue. + +“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, +but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a +great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—” + +“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in +kidding.” + +“Hulking,” insisted Daisy. + +Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a +bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool +as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all +desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a +polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew +that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too +would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the +West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its +close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer +nervous dread of the moment itself. + +“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass +of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or +something?” + +I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in +an unexpected way. + +“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve +gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise +of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?” + +“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone. + +“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is +if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly +submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.” + +“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of +unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in +them. What was that word we—” + +“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her +impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to +us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will +have control of things.” + +“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously +toward the fervent sun. + +“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom +interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair. + +“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, +and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a +slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the +things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all +that. Do you see?” + +There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his +complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. +When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler +left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned +towards me. + +“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. +“It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s +nose?” + +“That’s why I came over tonight.” + +“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher +for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred +people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it +began to affect his nose—” + +“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker. + +“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up +his position.” + +For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her +glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I +listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering +regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk. + +The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, +whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went +inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned +forward again, her voice glowing and singing. + +“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an +absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: +“An absolute rose?” + +This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only +extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart +was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, +thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and +excused herself and went into the house. + +Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of +meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” +in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the +room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to +hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, +mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether. + +“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began. + +“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.” + +“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently. + +“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. +“I thought everybody knew.” + +“I don’t.” + +“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.” + +“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly. + +Miss Baker nodded. + +“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. +Don’t you think?” + +Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a +dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at +the table. + +“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety. + +She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and +continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic +outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a +nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing +away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?” + +“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light +enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.” + +The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head +decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, +vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes +at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I +was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to +avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but +I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain +hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill +metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation +might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone +immediately for the police. + +The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss +Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into +the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, +trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed +Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In +its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee. + +Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and +her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that +turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be +some sedative questions about her little girl. + +“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even +if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.” + +“I wasn’t back from the war.” + +“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, +and I’m pretty cynical about everything.” + +Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more, +and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her +daughter. + +“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.” + +“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you +what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?” + +“Very much.” + +“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was +less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of +the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right +away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I +turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a +girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be +in this world, a beautiful little fool.’ + +“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a +convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I +know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” +Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and +she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m +sophisticated!” + +The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my +belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me +uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to +exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a +moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as +if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret +society to which she and Tom belonged. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at +either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the +Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running +together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and +dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as +she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms. + +When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. + +“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in +our very next issue.” + +Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she +stood up. + +“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the +ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.” + +“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, +“over at Westchester.” + +“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.” + +I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous +expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the +sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard +some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I +had forgotten long ago. + +“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.” + +“If you’ll get up.” + +“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.” + +“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a +marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you +together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push +you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—” + +“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a +word.” + +“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let +her run around the country this way.” + +“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly. + +“Her family.” + +“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s +going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots +of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be +very good for her.” + +Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence. + +“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly. + +“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our +beautiful white—” + +“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” +demanded Tom suddenly. + +“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we +talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept +up on us and first thing you know—” + +“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me. + +I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes +later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood +side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor +Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!” + +“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were +engaged to a girl out West.” + +“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were +engaged.” + +“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.” + +“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again +in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be +true.” + +Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even +vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one +of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old +friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention +of being rumoured into marriage. + +Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely +rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove +away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out +of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such +intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman +in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been +depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of +stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his +peremptory heart. + +Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside +garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and +when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and +sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had +blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the +trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth +blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered +across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I +was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of +my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets +regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely +movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested +that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was +his of our local heavens. + +I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and +that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he +gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched +out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was +from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced +seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute +and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked +once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the +unquiet darkness. + + + II + +About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily +joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as +to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley +of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and +hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and +chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of +ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery +air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, +gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the +ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable +cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight. + +But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift +endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. +J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and +gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, +but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass +over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set +them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then +sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved +away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun +and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. + +The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, +when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on +waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an +hour. There is always a halt there of at least a minute, and it was +because of this that I first met Tom Buchanan’s mistress. + +The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His +acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular cafés +with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about, chatting with +whomsoever he knew. Though I was curious to see her, I had no desire +to meet her—but I did. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one +afternoon, and when we stopped by the ash-heaps he jumped to his feet +and, taking hold of my elbow, literally forced me from the car. + +“We’re getting off,” he insisted. “I want you to meet my girl.” + +I think he’d tanked up a good deal at luncheon, and his determination +to have my company bordered on violence. The supercilious assumption +was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do. + +I followed him over a low whitewashed railroad fence, and we walked +back a hundred yards along the road under Doctor Eckleburg’s +persistent stare. The only building in sight was a small block of +yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact +Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. +One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an +all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a +garage—Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed +Tom inside. + +The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the +dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had +occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind, and that +sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed overhead, when the +proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands +on a piece of waste. He was a blond, spiritless man, anaemic, and +faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his +light blue eyes. + +“Hello, Wilson, old man,” said Tom, slapping him jovially on the +shoulder. “How’s business?” + +“I can’t complain,” answered Wilson unconvincingly. “When are you +going to sell me that car?” + +“Next week; I’ve got my man working on it now.” + +“Works pretty slow, don’t he?” + +“No, he doesn’t,” said Tom coldly. “And if you feel that way about it, +maybe I’d better sell it somewhere else after all.” + +“I don’t mean that,” explained Wilson quickly. “I just meant—” + +His voice faded off and Tom glanced impatiently around the garage. +Then I heard footsteps on a stairs, and in a moment the thickish +figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door. She was +in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her flesh +sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark +blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there +was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of +her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking +through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, +looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without +turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: + +“Get some chairs, why don’t you, so somebody can sit down.” + +“Oh, sure,” agreed Wilson hurriedly, and went toward the little +office, mingling immediately with the cement colour of the walls. A +white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled +everything in the vicinity—except his wife, who moved close to Tom. + +“I want to see you,” said Tom intently. “Get on the next train.” + +“All right.” + +“I’ll meet you by the newsstand on the lower level.” + +She nodded and moved away from him just as George Wilson emerged with +two chairs from his office door. + +We waited for her down the road and out of sight. It was a few days +before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was +setting torpedoes in a row along the railroad track. + +“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor +Eckleburg. + +“Awful.” + +“It does her good to get away.” + +“Doesn’t her husband object?” + +“Wilson? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so +dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.” + +So Tom Buchanan and his girl and I went up together to New York—or not +quite together, for Mrs. Wilson sat discreetly in another car. Tom +deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might +be on the train. + +She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin, which stretched +tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the platform in +New York. At the newsstand she bought a copy of Town Tattle and a +moving-picture magazine, and in the station drugstore some cold cream +and a small flask of perfume. Upstairs, in the solemn echoing drive +she let four taxicabs drive away before she selected a new one, +lavender-coloured with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from +the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine. But immediately she +turned sharply from the window and, leaning forward, tapped on the +front glass. + +“I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get +one for the apartment. They’re nice to have—a dog.” + +We backed up to a grey old man who bore an absurd resemblance to John +D. Rockefeller. In a basket swung from his neck cowered a dozen very +recent puppies of an indeterminate breed. + +“What kind are they?” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerly, as he came to the +taxi-window. + +“All kinds. What kind do you want, lady?” + +“I’d like to get one of those police dogs; I don’t suppose you got +that kind?” + +The man peered doubtfully into the basket, plunged in his hand and +drew one up, wriggling, by the back of the neck. + +“That’s no police dog,” said Tom. + +“No, it’s not exactly a police dog,” said the man with disappointment +in his voice. “It’s more of an Airedale.” He passed his hand over the +brown washrag of a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’s a dog +that’ll never bother you with catching cold.” + +“I think it’s cute,” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically. “How much is +it?” + +“That dog?” He looked at it admiringly. “That dog will cost you ten +dollars.” + +The Airedale—undoubtedly there was an Airedale concerned in it +somewhere, though its feet were startlingly white—changed hands and +settled down into Mrs. Wilson’s lap, where she fondled the +weatherproof coat with rapture. + +“Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked delicately. + +“That dog? That dog’s a boy.” + +“It’s a bitch,” said Tom decisively. “Here’s your money. Go and buy +ten more dogs with it.” + +We drove over to Fifth Avenue, warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the +summer Sunday afternoon. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a great +flock of white sheep turn the corner. + +“Hold on,” I said, “I have to leave you here.” + +“No you don’t,” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’ll be hurt if you +don’t come up to the apartment. Won’t you, Myrtle?” + +“Come on,” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sister Catherine. She’s said +to be very beautiful by people who ought to know.” + +“Well, I’d like to, but—” + +We went on, cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. +At 158th Street the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of +apartment-houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the +neighbourhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other +purchases, and went haughtily in. + +“I’m going to have the McKees come up,” she announced as we rose in +the elevator. “And, of course, I got to call up my sister, too.” + +The apartment was on the top floor—a small living-room, a small +dining-room, a small bedroom, and a bath. The living-room was crowded +to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for +it, so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of +ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles. The only picture was an +over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. +Looked at from a distance, however, the hen resolved itself into a +bonnet, and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the +room. Several old copies of Town Tattle lay on the table together with +a copy of Simon Called Peter, and some of the small scandal magazines +of Broadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant +elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk, to which he +added on his own initiative a tin of large, hard dog biscuits—one of +which decomposed apathetically in the saucer of milk all +afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whisky from a locked +bureau door. + +I have been drunk just twice in my life, and the second time was that +afternoon; so everything that happened has a dim, hazy cast over it, +although until after eight o’clock the apartment was full of cheerful +sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilson called up several people on the +telephone; then there were no cigarettes, and I went out to buy some +at the drugstore on the corner. When I came back they had both +disappeared, so I sat down discreetly in the living-room and read a +chapter of Simon Called Peter—either it was terrible stuff or the +whisky distorted things, because it didn’t make any sense to me. + +Just as Tom and Myrtle (after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called +each other by our first names) reappeared, company commenced to arrive +at the apartment door. + +The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty, +with a solid, sticky bob of red hair, and a complexion powdered milky +white. Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more +rakish angle, but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the +old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. When she moved about +there was an incessant clicking as innumerable pottery bracelets +jingled up and down upon her arms. She came in with such a proprietary +haste, and looked around so possessively at the furniture that I +wondered if she lived here. But when I asked her she laughed +immoderately, repeated my question aloud, and told me she lived with a +girl friend at a hotel. + +Mr. McKee was a pale, feminine man from the flat below. He had just +shaved, for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone, and he +was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room. He +informed me that he was in the “artistic game,” and I gathered later +that he was a photographer and had made the dim enlargement of +Mrs. Wilson’s mother which hovered like an ectoplasm on the wall. His +wife was shrill, languid, handsome, and horrible. She told me with +pride that her husband had photographed her a hundred and twenty-seven +times since they had been married. + +Mrs. Wilson had changed her costume some time before, and was now +attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream-coloured chiffon, +which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With +the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a +change. The intense vitality that had been so remarkable in the garage +was converted into impressive hauteur. Her laughter, her gestures, her +assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she +expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be +revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air. + +“My dear,” she told her sister in a high, mincing shout, “most of +these fellas will cheat you every time. All they think of is money. I +had a woman up here last week to look at my feet, and when she gave me +the bill you’d of thought she had my appendicitis out.” + +“What was the name of the woman?” asked Mrs. McKee. + +“Mrs. Eberhardt. She goes around looking at people’s feet in their own +homes.” + +“I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.” + +Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain. + +“It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes +when I don’t care what I look like.” + +“But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs. +McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could +make something of it.” + +We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair +from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. +McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved +his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face. + +“I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to +bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of +all the back hair.” + +“I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think +it’s—” + +Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again, +whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet. + +“You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and +mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.” + +“I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair +at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to +keep after them all the time.” + +She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to +the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying +that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there. + +“I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee. + +Tom looked at him blankly. + +“Two of them we have framed downstairs.” + +“Two what?” demanded Tom. + +“Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the +other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.” + +The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch. + +“Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired. + +“I live at West Egg.” + +“Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named +Gatsby’s. Do you know him?” + +“I live next door to him.” + +“Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s +where all his money comes from.” + +“Really?” + +She nodded. + +“I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.” + +This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. +McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine: + +“Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but +Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom. + +“I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. +All I ask is that they should give me a start.” + +“Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as +Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of +introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” + +“Do what?” she asked, startled. + +“You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can +do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he +invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like +that.” + +Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: + +“Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” + +“Can’t they?” + +“Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say +is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them +I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” + +“Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” + +The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had +overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. + +“You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. +“It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and +they don’t believe in divorce.” + +Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the +elaborateness of the lie. + +“When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West +to live for a while until it blows over.” + +“It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” + +“Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back +from Monte Carlo.” + +“Really.” + +“Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” + +“Stay long?” + +“No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of +Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we +got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an +awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!” + +The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the +blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee +called me back into the room. + +“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost +married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was +below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below +you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” + +“Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, +“at least you didn’t marry him.” + +“I know I didn’t.” + +“Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the +difference between your case and mine.” + +“Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” + +Myrtle considered. + +“I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said +finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t +fit to lick my shoe.” + +“You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. + +“Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy +about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that +man there.” + +She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I +tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. + +“The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made +a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and +never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he +was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever +heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to +beat the band all afternoon.” + +“She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. +“They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the +first sweetie she ever had.” + +The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all +present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at +all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated +sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to +get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, +but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident +argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet +high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed +their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening +streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and +without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible +variety of life. + +Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath +poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom. + +“It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the +last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my +sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather +shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked +at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his +head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white +shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call +a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into +a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway +train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live +forever; you can’t live forever.’ ” + +She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial +laughter. + +“My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m +through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to +make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, +and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where +you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s +grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t +forget all the things I got to do.” + +It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch +and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists +clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out +my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that +had worried me all the afternoon. + +The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes +through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People +disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost +each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet +away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs. Wilson stood +face to face discussing, in impassioned voices, whether Mrs. Wilson +had any right to mention Daisy’s name. + +“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!” shouted Mrs. Wilson. “I’ll say it whenever I +want to! Daisy! Dai—” + +Making a short deft movement, Tom Buchanan broke her nose with his +open hand. + +Then there were bloody towels upon the bathroom floor, and women’s +voices scolding, and high over the confusion a long broken wail of +pain. Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the +door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the +scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled +here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid, and +the despairing figure on the couch, bleeding fluently, and trying to +spread a copy of Town Tattle over the tapestry scenes of +Versailles. Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. +Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed. + +“Come to lunch some day,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the +elevator. + +“Where?” + +“Anywhere.” + +“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was +touching it.” + +“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.” + +… I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the +sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands. + +“Beauty and the Beast … Loneliness … Old Grocery Horse … Brook’n +Bridge …” + +Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the +Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for +the four o’clock train. + + + III + +There was music from my neighbour’s house through the summer nights. +In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the +whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the +afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or +taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motorboats +slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of +foam. On weekends his Rolls-Royce became an omnibus, bearing parties +to and from the city between nine in the morning and long past +midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to +meet all trains. And on Mondays eight servants, including an extra +gardener, toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers +and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. + +Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a +fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same oranges and lemons left +his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves. There was a machine in +the kitchen which could extract the juice of two hundred oranges in +half an hour if a little button was pressed two hundred times by a +butler’s thumb. + +At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several +hundred feet of canvas and enough coloured lights to make a Christmas +tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden. On buffet tables, garnished with +glistening hors-d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of +harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark +gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up, and +stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that +most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. + +By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, +but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and +cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have +come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from +New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and +salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in +strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is +in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden +outside, until the air is alive with chatter and laughter, and casual +innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic +meetings between women who never knew each other’s names. + +The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and +now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of +voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, +spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups +change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the +same breath; already there are wanderers, confident girls who weave +here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, +joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph, +glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under +the constantly changing light. + +Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail +out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like +Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the +orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a +burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda +Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun. + +I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one +of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not +invited—they went there. They got into automobiles which bore them out +to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there +they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they +conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated +with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having +met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that +was its own ticket of admission. + +I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of robin’s-egg +blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning with a surprisingly +formal note from his employer: the honour would be entirely Gatsby’s, +it said, if I would attend his “little party” that night. He had seen +me several times, and had intended to call on me long before, but a +peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay +Gatsby, in a majestic hand. + +Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a little after +seven, and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies +of people I didn’t know—though here and there was a face I had noticed +on the commuting train. I was immediately struck by the number of +young Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a little +hungry, and all talking in low, earnest voices to solid and prosperous +Americans. I was sure that they were selling something: bonds or +insurance or automobiles. They were at least agonizingly aware of the +easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few +words in the right key. + +As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or +three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an +amazed way, and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements, +that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place +in the garden where a single man could linger without looking +purposeless and alone. + +I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when +Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble +steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous +interest down into the garden. + +Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone +before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passersby. + +“Hello!” I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed unnaturally +loud across the garden. + +“I thought you might be here,” she responded absently as I came up. +“I remembered you lived next door to—” + +She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d take care of me +in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin yellow dresses, who +stopped at the foot of the steps. + +“Hello!” they cried together. “Sorry you didn’t win.” + +That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the finals the week +before. + +“You don’t know who we are,” said one of the girls in yellow, “but we +met you here about a month ago.” + +“You’ve dyed your hair since then,” remarked Jordan, and I started, +but the girls had moved casually on and her remark was addressed to +the premature moon, produced like the supper, no doubt, out of a +caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s slender golden arm resting in mine, we +descended the steps and sauntered about the garden. A tray of +cocktails floated at us through the twilight, and we sat down at a +table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced +to us as Mr. Mumble. + +“Do you come to these parties often?” inquired Jordan of the girl +beside her. + +“The last one was the one I met you at,” answered the girl, in an +alert confident voice. She turned to her companion: “Wasn’t it for +you, Lucille?” + +It was for Lucille, too. + +“I like to come,” Lucille said. “I never care what I do, so I always +have a good time. When I was here last I tore my gown on a chair, and +he asked me my name and address—inside of a week I got a package from +Croirier’s with a new evening gown in it.” + +“Did you keep it?” asked Jordan. + +“Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the +bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two +hundred and sixty-five dollars.” + +“There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that,” +said the other girl eagerly. “He doesn’t want any trouble with +anybody.” + +“Who doesn’t?” I inquired. + +“Gatsby. Somebody told me—” + +The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially. + +“Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.” + +A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles bent forward and +listened eagerly. + +“I don’t think it’s so much that,” argued Lucille sceptically; “It’s +more that he was a German spy during the war.” + +One of the men nodded in confirmation. + +“I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in +Germany,” he assured us positively. + +“Oh, no,” said the first girl, “it couldn’t be that, because he was in +the American army during the war.” As our credulity switched back to +her she leaned forward with enthusiasm. “You look at him sometimes +when he thinks nobody’s looking at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.” + +She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered. We all turned +and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimony to the romantic +speculation he inspired that there were whispers about him from those +who had found little that it was necessary to whisper about in this +world. + +The first supper—there would be another one after midnight—was now +being served, and Jordan invited me to join her own party, who were +spread around a table on the other side of the garden. There were +three married couples and Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate +given to violent innuendo, and obviously under the impression that +sooner or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a +greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling, this party had +preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function +of representing the staid nobility of the countryside—East Egg +condescending to West Egg and carefully on guard against its +spectroscopic gaiety. + +“Let’s get out,” whispered Jordan, after a somehow wasteful and +inappropriate half-hour; “this is much too polite for me.” + +We got up, and she explained that we were going to find the host: I +had never met him, she said, and it was making me uneasy. The +undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. + +The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not +there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t +on the veranda. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and +walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, +and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas. + +A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was +sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with +unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he +wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. + +“What do you think?” he demanded impetuously. + +“About what?” + +He waved his hand toward the bookshelves. + +“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I +ascertained. They’re real.” + +“The books?” + +He nodded. + +“Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice +durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages +and—Here! Lemme show you.” + +Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and +returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. + +“See!” he cried triumphantly. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed +matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco. It’s a +triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, +too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?” + +He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, +muttering that if one brick was removed the whole library was liable +to collapse. + +“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. +Most people were brought.” + +Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering. + +“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud +Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been +drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit +in a library.” + +“Has it?” + +“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. +Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—” + +“You told us.” + +We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors. + +There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing +young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples +holding each other tortuously, fashionably, and keeping in the +corners—and a great number of single girls dancing individually or +relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the +traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated tenor had +sung in Italian, and a notorious contralto had sung in jazz, and +between the numbers people were doing “stunts” all over the garden, +while happy, vacuous bursts of laughter rose toward the summer sky. A +pair of stage twins, who turned out to be the girls in yellow, did a +baby act in costume, and champagne was served in glasses bigger than +finger-bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was +a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny +drip of the banjoes on the lawn. + +I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man +of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the +slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying +myself now. I had taken two finger-bowls of champagne, and the scene +had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental, and +profound. + +At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled. + +“Your face is familiar,” he said politely. “Weren’t you in the First +Division during the war?” + +“Why yes. I was in the Twenty-eighth Infantry.” + +“I was in the Sixteenth until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew I’d seen +you somewhere before.” + +We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little villages in France. +Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just +bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. + +“Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along the Sound.” + +“What time?” + +“Any time that suits you best.” + +It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jordan looked +around and smiled. + +“Having a gay time now?” she inquired. + +“Much better.” I turned again to my new acquaintance. “This is an +unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host. I live over +there—” I waved my hand at the invisible hedge in the distance, “and +this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.” + +For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand. + +“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly. + +“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.” + +“I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.” + +He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one +of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that +you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to +face—the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on +you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you +just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you +would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had +precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to +convey. Precisely at that point it vanished—and I was looking at an +elegant young roughneck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate +formality of speech just missed being absurd. Some time before he +introduced himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his +words with care. + +Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler +hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him +on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of +us in turn. + +“If you want anything just ask for it, old sport,” he urged me. +“Excuse me. I will rejoin you later.” + +When he was gone I turned immediately to Jordan—constrained to assure +her of my surprise. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid +and corpulent person in his middle years. + +“Who is he?” I demanded. “Do you know?” + +“He’s just a man named Gatsby.” + +“Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?” + +“Now you’re started on the subject,” she answered with a wan smile. +“Well, he told me once he was an Oxford man.” + +A dim background started to take shape behind him, but at her next +remark it faded away. + +“However, I don’t believe it.” + +“Why not?” + +“I don’t know,” she insisted, “I just don’t think he went there.” + +Something in her tone reminded me of the other girl’s “I think he +killed a man,” and had the effect of stimulating my curiosity. I would +have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from +the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York. That +was comprehensible. But young men didn’t—at least in my provincial +inexperience I believed they didn’t—drift coolly out of nowhere and +buy a palace on Long Island Sound. + +“Anyhow, he gives large parties,” said Jordan, changing the subject +with an urban distaste for the concrete. “And I like large parties. +They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” + +There was the boom of a bass drum, and the voice of the orchestra +leader rang out suddenly above the echolalia of the garden. + +“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried. “At the request of Mr. Gatsby we are +going to play for you Mr. Vladmir Tostoff’s latest work, which +attracted so much attention at Carnegie Hall last May. If you read the +papers you know there was a big sensation.” He smiled with jovial +condescension, and added: “Some sensation!” Whereupon everybody +laughed. + +“The piece is known,” he concluded lustily, “as ‘Vladmir Tostoff’s +Jazz History of the World!’ ” + +The nature of Mr. Tostoff’s composition eluded me, because just as it +began my eyes fell on Gatsby, standing alone on the marble steps and +looking from one group to another with approving eyes. His tanned skin +was drawn attractively tight on his face and his short hair looked as +though it were trimmed every day. I could see nothing sinister about +him. I wondered if the fact that he was not drinking helped to set him +off from his guests, for it seemed to me that he grew more correct as +the fraternal hilarity increased. When the “Jazz History of the World” +was over, girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a +puppyish, convivial way, girls were swooning backward playfully into +men’s arms, even into groups, knowing that someone would arrest their +falls—but no one swooned backward on Gatsby, and no French bob touched +Gatsby’s shoulder, and no singing quartets were formed with Gatsby’s +head for one link. + +“I beg your pardon.” + +Gatsby’s butler was suddenly standing beside us. + +“Miss Baker?” he inquired. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. Gatsby would +like to speak to you alone.” + +“With me?” she exclaimed in surprise. + +“Yes, madame.” + +She got up slowly, raising her eyebrows at me in astonishment, and +followed the butler toward the house. I noticed that she wore her +evening-dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a +jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk +upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings. + +I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and +intriguing sounds had issued from a long, many-windowed room which +overhung the terrace. Eluding Jordan’s undergraduate, who was now +engaged in an obstetrical conversation with two chorus girls, and who +implored me to join him, I went inside. + +The large room was full of people. One of the girls in yellow was +playing the piano, and beside her stood a tall, red-haired young lady +from a famous chorus, engaged in song. She had drunk a quantity of +champagne, and during the course of her song she had decided, ineptly, +that everything was very, very sad—she was not only singing, she was +weeping too. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with +gasping, broken sobs, and then took up the lyric again in a quavering +soprano. The tears coursed down her cheeks—not freely, however, for +when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they +assumed an inky colour, and pursued the rest of their way in slow +black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes +on her face, whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair, and +went off into a deep vinous sleep. + +“She had a fight with a man who says he’s her husband,” explained a +girl at my elbow. + +I looked around. Most of the remaining women were now having fights +with men said to be their husbands. Even Jordan’s party, the quartet +from East Egg, were rent asunder by dissension. One of the men was +talking with curious intensity to a young actress, and his wife, after +attempting to laugh at the situation in a dignified and indifferent +way, broke down entirely and resorted to flank attacks—at intervals +she appeared suddenly at his side like an angry diamond, and hissed: +“You promised!” into his ear. + +The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men. The hall +was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly +indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in +slightly raised voices. + +“Whenever he sees I’m having a good time he wants to go home.” + +“Never heard anything so selfish in my life.” + +“We’re always the first ones to leave.” + +“So are we.” + +“Well, we’re almost the last tonight,” said one of the men sheepishly. +“The orchestra left half an hour ago.” + +In spite of the wives’ agreement that such malevolence was beyond +credibility, the dispute ended in a short struggle, and both wives +were lifted, kicking, into the night. + +As I waited for my hat in the hall the door of the library opened and +Jordan Baker and Gatsby came out together. He was saying some last +word to her, but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into +formality as several people approached him to say goodbye. + +Jordan’s party were calling impatiently to her from the porch, but she +lingered for a moment to shake hands. + +“I’ve just heard the most amazing thing,” she whispered. “How long +were we in there?” + +“Why, about an hour.” + +“It was … simply amazing,” she repeated abstractedly. “But I swore I +wouldn’t tell it and here I am tantalizing you.” She yawned gracefully +in my face. “Please come and see me … Phone book … Under the name of +Mrs. Sigourney Howard … My aunt …” She was hurrying off as she +talked—her brown hand waved a jaunty salute as she melted into her +party at the door. + +Rather ashamed that on my first appearance I had stayed so late, I +joined the last of Gatsby’s guests, who were clustered around him. I +wanted to explain that I’d hunted for him early in the evening and to +apologize for not having known him in the garden. + +“Don’t mention it,” he enjoined me eagerly. “Don’t give it another +thought, old sport.” The familiar expression held no more familiarity +than the hand which reassuringly brushed my shoulder. “And don’t +forget we’re going up in the hydroplane tomorrow morning, at nine +o’clock.” + +Then the butler, behind his shoulder: + +“Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir.” + +“All right, in a minute. Tell them I’ll be right there … Good night.” + +“Good night.” + +“Good night.” He smiled—and suddenly there seemed to be a pleasant +significance in having been among the last to go, as if he had desired +it all the time. “Good night, old sport … Good night.” + +But as I walked down the steps I saw that the evening was not quite +over. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a +bizarre and tumultuous scene. In the ditch beside the road, right side +up, but violently shorn of one wheel, rested a new coupé which had +left Gatsby’s drive not two minutes before. The sharp jut of a wall +accounted for the detachment of the wheel, which was now getting +considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, +as they had left their cars blocking the road, a harsh, discordant din +from those in the rear had been audible for some time, and added to +the already violent confusion of the scene. + +A man in a long duster had dismounted from the wreck and now stood in +the middle of the road, looking from the car to the tyre and from the +tyre to the observers in a pleasant, puzzled way. + +“See!” he explained. “It went in the ditch.” + +The fact was infinitely astonishing to him, and I recognized first the +unusual quality of wonder, and then the man—it was the late patron of +Gatsby’s library. + +“How’d it happen?” + +He shrugged his shoulders. + +“I know nothing whatever about mechanics,” he said decisively. + +“But how did it happen? Did you run into the wall?” + +“Don’t ask me,” said Owl Eyes, washing his hands of the whole +matter. “I know very little about driving—next to nothing. It +happened, and that’s all I know.” + +“Well, if you’re a poor driver you oughtn’t to try driving at night.” + +“But I wasn’t even trying,” he explained indignantly, “I wasn’t even +trying.” + +An awed hush fell upon the bystanders. + +“Do you want to commit suicide?” + +“You’re lucky it was just a wheel! A bad driver and not even trying!” + +“You don’t understand,” explained the criminal. “I wasn’t driving. +There’s another man in the car.” + +The shock that followed this declaration found voice in a sustained +“Ah-h-h!” as the door of the coupé swung slowly open. The crowd—it was +now a crowd—stepped back involuntarily, and when the door had opened +wide there was a ghostly pause. Then, very gradually, part by part, a +pale, dangling individual stepped out of the wreck, pawing tentatively +at the ground with a large uncertain dancing shoe. + +Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the incessant +groaning of the horns, the apparition stood swaying for a moment +before he perceived the man in the duster. + +“Wha’s matter?” he inquired calmly. “Did we run outa gas?” + +“Look!” + +Half a dozen fingers pointed at the amputated wheel—he stared at it +for a moment, and then looked upward as though he suspected that it +had dropped from the sky. + +“It came off,” someone explained. + +He nodded. + +“At first I din’ notice we’d stopped.” + +A pause. Then, taking a long breath and straightening his shoulders, +he remarked in a determined voice: + +“Wonder’ff tell me where there’s a gas’line station?” + +At least a dozen men, some of them a little better off than he was, +explained to him that wheel and car were no longer joined by any +physical bond. + +“Back out,” he suggested after a moment. “Put her in reverse.” + +“But the wheel’s off!” + +He hesitated. + +“No harm in trying,” he said. + +The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and +cut across the lawn toward home. I glanced back once. A wafer of a +moon was shining over Gatsby’s house, making the night fine as before, +and surviving the laughter and the sound of his still glowing garden. +A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great +doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who +stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Reading over what I have written so far, I see I have given the +impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were +all that absorbed me. On the contrary, they were merely casual events +in a crowded summer, and, until much later, they absorbed me +infinitely less than my personal affairs. + +Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my +shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York +to the Probity Trust. I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen +by their first names, and lunched with them in dark, crowded +restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I +even had a short affair with a girl who lived in Jersey City and +worked in the accounting department, but her brother began throwing +mean looks in my direction, so when she went on her vacation in July I +let it blow quietly away. + +I took dinner usually at the Yale Club—for some reason it was the +gloomiest event of my day—and then I went upstairs to the library and +studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour. There +were generally a few rioters around, but they never came into the +library, so it was a good place to work. After that, if the night was +mellow, I strolled down Madison Avenue past the old Murray Hill Hotel, +and over 33rd Street to the Pennsylvania Station. + +I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, +and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and +machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue +and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few +minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever +know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their +apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and +smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm +darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting +loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who +loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary +restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant +moments of night and life. + +Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were lined +five deep with throbbing taxicabs, bound for the theatre district, I +felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they +waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, +and lighted cigarettes made unintelligible circles inside. Imagining +that I, too, was hurrying towards gaiety and sharing their intimate +excitement, I wished them well. + +For a while I lost sight of Jordan Baker, and then in midsummer I +found her again. At first I was flattered to go places with her, +because she was a golf champion, and everyone knew her name. Then it +was something more. I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of +tender curiosity. The bored haughty face that she turned to the world +concealed something—most affectations conceal something eventually, +even though they don’t in the beginning—and one day I found what it +was. When we were on a house-party together up in Warwick, she left a +borrowed car out in the rain with the top down, and then lied about +it—and suddenly I remembered the story about her that had eluded me +that night at Daisy’s. At her first big golf tournament there was a +row that nearly reached the newspapers—a suggestion that she had moved +her ball from a bad lie in the semifinal round. The thing approached +the proportions of a scandal—then died away. A caddy retracted his +statement, and the only other witness admitted that he might have been +mistaken. The incident and the name had remained together in my mind. + +Jordan Baker instinctively avoided clever, shrewd men, and now I saw +that this was because she felt safer on a plane where any divergence +from a code would be thought impossible. She was incurably dishonest. +She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this +unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she +was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to +the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body. + +It made no difference to me. Dishonesty in a woman is a thing you +never blame deeply—I was casually sorry, and then I forgot. It was on +that same house-party that we had a curious conversation about driving +a car. It started because she passed so close to some workmen that our +fender flicked a button on one man’s coat. + +“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be more +careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.” + +“I am careful.” + +“No, you’re not.” + +“Well, other people are,” she said lightly. + +“What’s that got to do with it?” + +“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to make an +accident.” + +“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” + +“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. That’s +why I like you.” + +Her grey, sun-strained eyes stared straight ahead, but she had +deliberately shifted our relations, and for a moment I thought I loved +her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as +brakes on my desires, and I knew that first I had to get myself +definitely out of that tangle back home. I’d been writing letters once +a week and signing them: “Love, Nick,” and all I could think of was +how, when that certain girl played tennis, a faint moustache of +perspiration appeared on her upper lip. Nevertheless there was a vague +understanding that had to be tactfully broken off before I was free. + +Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and +this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever +known. + + + IV + +On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, +the world and its mistress returned to Gatsby’s house and twinkled +hilariously on his lawn. + +“He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between +his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found +out that he was nephew to Von Hindenburg and second cousin to the +devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there +crystal glass.” + +Once I wrote down on the empty spaces of a timetable the names of +those who came to Gatsby’s house that summer. It is an old timetable +now, disintegrating at its folds, and headed “This schedule in effect +July 5th, 1922.” But I can still read the grey names, and they will +give you a better impression than my generalities of those who +accepted Gatsby’s hospitality and paid him the subtle tribute of +knowing nothing whatever about him. + +From East Egg, then, came the Chester Beckers and the Leeches, and a +man named Bunsen, whom I knew at Yale, and Doctor Webster Civet, who +was drowned last summer up in Maine. And the Hornbeams and the Willie +Voltaires, and a whole clan named Blackbuck, who always gathered in a +corner and flipped up their noses like goats at whosoever came +near. And the Ismays and the Chrysties (or rather Hubert Auerbach and +Mr. Chrystie’s wife), and Edgar Beaver, whose hair, they say, turned +cotton-white one winter afternoon for no good reason at all. + +Clarence Endive was from East Egg, as I remember. He came only once, +in white knickerbockers, and had a fight with a bum named Etty in the +garden. From farther out on the Island came the Cheadles and the O. +R. P. Schraeders, and the Stonewall Jackson Abrams of Georgia, and the +Fishguards and the Ripley Snells. Snell was there three days before he +went to the penitentiary, so drunk out on the gravel drive that +Mrs. Ulysses Swett’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Dancies +came, too, and S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, and Maurice +A. Flink, and the Hammerheads, and Beluga the tobacco importer, and +Beluga’s girls. + +From West Egg came the Poles and the Mulreadys and Cecil Roebuck and +Cecil Schoen and Gulick the State senator and Newton Orchid, who +controlled Films Par Excellence, and Eckhaust and Clyde Cohen and Don +S. Schwartz (the son) and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the +movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. +Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his +wife. Da Fontano the promoter came there, and Ed Legros and James B. +(“Rot-Gut”) Ferret and the De Jongs and Ernest Lilly—they came to +gamble, and when Ferret wandered into the garden it meant he was +cleaned out and Associated Traction would have to fluctuate profitably +next day. + +A man named Klipspringer was there so often that he became known as +“the boarder”—I doubt if he had any other home. Of theatrical people +there were Gus Waize and Horace O’Donavan and Lester Myer and George +Duckweed and Francis Bull. Also from New York were the Chromes and the +Backhyssons and the Dennickers and Russel Betty and the Corrigans and +the Kellehers and the Dewars and the Scullys and S. W. Belcher and the +Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L. Palmetto, who +killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square. + +Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite +the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with +another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have +forgotten their names—Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria +or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names +of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American +capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves +to be. + +In addition to all these I can remember that Faustina O’Brien came +there at least once and the Baedeker girls and young Brewer, who had +his nose shot off in the war, and Mr. Albrucksburger and Miss Haag, +his fiancée, and Ardita Fitz-Peters and Mr. P. Jewett, once head of +the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be +her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and +whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten. + +All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +At nine o’clock, one morning late in July, Gatsby’s gorgeous car +lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody +from its three-noted horn. + +It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of +his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, +made frequent use of his beach. + +“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I +thought we’d ride up together.” + +He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that +resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, +I suppose, with the absence of lifting work in youth and, even more, +with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality +was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape +of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping +foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. + +He saw me looking with admiration at his car. + +“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a better +view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?” + +I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream colour, bright +with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with +triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and toolboxes, and terraced with +a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down +behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, +we started to town. + +I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and +found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first +impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had +gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an +elaborate roadhouse next door. + +And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg +village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished +and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured +suit. + +“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your +opinion of me, anyhow?” + +A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that +question deserves. + +“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. +“I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you +hear.” + +So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavoured conversation +in his halls. + +“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine +retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the +Middle West—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at +Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many +years. It is a family tradition.” + +He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he +was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed +it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with +this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if +there wasn’t something a little sinister about him, after all. + +“What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. + +“San Francisco.” + +“I see.” + +“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.” + +His voice was solemn, as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a +clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling +my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise. + +“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of +Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting +big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to +forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.” + +With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very +phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that +of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued +a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne. + +“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief, and I tried very +hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a +commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I +took the remains of my machine-gun battalion so far forward that there +was a half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t +advance. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty +men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last +they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of +dead. I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave +me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the +Adriatic Sea!” + +Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his +smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and +sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It +appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had +elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My +incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming +hastily through a dozen magazines. + +He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, +fell into my palm. + +“That’s the one from Montenegro.” + +To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. “Orderi di +Danilo,” ran the circular legend, “Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.” + +“Turn it.” + +“Major Jay Gatsby,” I read, “For Valour Extraordinary.” + +“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It +was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now the Earl of +Doncaster.” + +It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an +archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, +looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. + +Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace +on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with +their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart. + +“I’m going to make a big request of you today,” he said, pocketing his +souvenirs with satisfaction, “so I thought you ought to know something +about me. I didn’t want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, +I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there +trying to forget the sad things that happened to me.” He hesitated. +“You’ll hear about it this afternoon.” + +“At lunch?” + +“No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that you’re taking Miss +Baker to tea.” + +“Do you mean you’re in love with Miss Baker?” + +“No, old sport, I’m not. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak +to you about this matter.” + +I hadn’t the faintest idea what “this matter” was, but I was more +annoyed than interested. I hadn’t asked Jordan to tea in order to +discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something +utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I’d ever set foot upon +his overpopulated lawn. + +He wouldn’t say another word. His correctness grew on him as we neared +the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of +red-belted oceangoing ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with +the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. +Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a +glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting +vitality as we went by. + +With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half +Astoria—only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated +I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic +policeman rode alongside. + +“All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down. Taking a white +card from his wallet, he waved it before the man’s eyes. + +“Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap. “Know you next +time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse me!” + +“What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?” + +“I was able to do the commissioner a favour once, and he sends me a +Christmas card every year.” + +Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a +constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across +the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of +nonolfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always +the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the +mystery and the beauty in the world. + +A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two +carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for +friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short +upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of +Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their sombre holiday. As we +crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white +chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I +laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in +haughty rivalry. + +“Anything can happen now that we’ve slid over this bridge,” I thought; +“anything at all …” + +Even Gatsby could happen, without any particular wonder. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby +for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes +picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. + +“Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfshiem.” + +A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two +fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a +moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. + +“—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, shaking my hand +earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” + +“What?” I inquired politely. + +But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and +covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. + +“I handed the money to Katspaugh and I said: ‘All right, Katspaugh, +don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and +there.” + +Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the +restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfshiem swallowed a new sentence he was +starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. + +“Highballs?” asked the head waiter. + +“This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, looking at the +presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street +better!” + +“Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfshiem: “It’s too +hot over there.” + +“Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “but full of memories.” + +“What place is that?” I asked. + +“The old Metropole.” + +“The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfshiem gloomily. “Filled with +faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t +forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there. It +was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all +evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a +funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. ‘All +right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his +chair. + +“ ‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t +you, so help me, move outside this room.’ + +“It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the +blinds we’d of seen daylight.” + +“Did he go?” I asked innocently. + +“Sure he went.” Mr. Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. “He +turned around in the door and says: ‘Don’t let that waiter take away +my coffee!’ Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three +times in his full belly and drove away.” + +“Four of them were electrocuted,” I said, remembering. + +“Five, with Becker.” His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. +“I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.” + +The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered +for me: + +“Oh, no,” he exclaimed, “this isn’t the man.” + +“No?” Mr. Wolfshiem seemed disappointed. + +“This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other +time.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, “I had a wrong man.” + +A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfshiem, forgetting the more +sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with +ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around +the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people +directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have +taken one short glance beneath our own table. + +“Look here, old sport,” said Gatsby, leaning toward me, “I’m afraid I +made you a little angry this morning in the car.” + +There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it. + +“I don’t like mysteries,” I answered, “and I don’t understand why you +won’t come out frankly and tell me what you want. Why has it all got +to come through Miss Baker?” + +“Oh, it’s nothing underhand,” he assured me. “Miss Baker’s a great +sportswoman, you know, and she’d never do anything that wasn’t all +right.” + +Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, +leaving me with Mr. Wolfshiem at the table. + +“He has to telephone,” said Mr. Wolfshiem, following him with his +eyes. “Fine fellow, isn’t he? Handsome to look at and a perfect +gentleman.” + +“Yes.” + +“He’s an Oggsford man.” + +“Oh!” + +“He went to Oggsford College in England. You know Oggsford College?” + +“I’ve heard of it.” + +“It’s one of the most famous colleges in the world.” + +“Have you known Gatsby for a long time?” I inquired. + +“Several years,” he answered in a gratified way. “I made the pleasure +of his acquaintance just after the war. But I knew I had discovered a +man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to +myself: ‘There’s the kind of man you’d like to take home and introduce +to your mother and sister.’ ” He paused. “I see you’re looking at my +cuff buttons.” + +I hadn’t been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of +oddly familiar pieces of ivory. + +“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. + +“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” + +“Yeah.” He flipped his sleeves up under his coat. “Yeah, Gatsby’s very +careful about women. He would never so much as look at a friend’s +wife.” + +When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and +sat down Mr. Wolfshiem drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his +feet. + +“I have enjoyed my lunch,” he said, “and I’m going to run off from you +two young men before I outstay my welcome.” + +“Don’t hurry Meyer,” said Gatsby, without enthusiasm. Mr. Wolfshiem +raised his hand in a sort of benediction. + +“You’re very polite, but I belong to another generation,” he announced +solemnly. “You sit here and discuss your sports and your young ladies +and your—” He supplied an imaginary noun with another wave of his +hand. “As for me, I am fifty years old, and I won’t impose myself on +you any longer.” + +As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I +wondered if I had said anything to offend him. + +“He becomes very sentimental sometimes,” explained Gatsby. “This is +one of his sentimental days. He’s quite a character around New York—a +denizen of Broadway.” + +“Who is he, anyhow, an actor?” + +“No.” + +“A dentist?” + +“Meyer Wolfshiem? No, he’s a gambler.” Gatsby hesitated, then added, +coolly: “He’s the man who fixed the World’s Series back in 1919.” + +“Fixed the World’s Series?” I repeated. + +The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World’s +Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I +would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of +some inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could +start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the +single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. + +“How did he happen to do that?” I asked after a minute. + +“He just saw the opportunity.” + +“Why isn’t he in jail?” + +“They can’t get him, old sport. He’s a smart man.” + +I insisted on paying the check. As the waiter brought my change I +caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. + +“Come along with me for a minute,” I said; “I’ve got to say hello to +someone.” + +When he saw us Tom jumped up and took half a dozen steps in our +direction. + +“Where’ve you been?” he demanded eagerly. “Daisy’s furious because you +haven’t called up.” + +“This is Mr. Gatsby, Mr. Buchanan.” + +They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of +embarrassment came over Gatsby’s face. + +“How’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Tom of me. “How’d you happen to +come up this far to eat?” + +“I’ve been having lunch with Mr. Gatsby.” + +I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +One October day in nineteen-seventeen— + +(said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a +straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel) + +—I was walking along from one place to another, half on the sidewalks +and half on the lawns. I was happier on the lawns because I had on +shoes from England with rubber knobs on the soles that bit into the +soft ground. I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the +wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in +front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut-tut-tut-tut, +in a disapproving way. + +The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to +Daisy Fay’s house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and +by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville. She +dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long +the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp +Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that +night. “Anyways, for an hour!” + +When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was +beside the kerb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had +never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she +didn’t see me until I was five feet away. + +“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.” + +I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the +older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red +Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she +couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was +speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at +sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the +incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on +him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I +didn’t realize it was the same man. + +That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux +myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very +often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone +at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had +found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say +goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually +prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for +several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any +more, but only with a few flat-footed, shortsighted young men in town, +who couldn’t get into the army at all. + +By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a début +after the armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a +man from New Orleans. In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, +with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He +came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a +whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he +gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand +dollars. + +I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the +bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June +night in her flowered dress—and as drunk as a monkey. She had a bottle +of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other. + +“ ’Gratulate me,” she muttered. “Never had a drink before, but oh how +I do enjoy it.” + +“What’s the matter, Daisy?” + +I was scared, I can tell you; I’d never seen a girl like that before. + +“Here, dearies.” She groped around in a wastebasket she had with her +on the bed and pulled out the string of pearls. “Take ’em downstairs +and give ’em back to whoever they belong to. Tell ’em all Daisy’s +change’ her mine. Say: ‘Daisy’s change’ her mine!’ ” + +She began to cry—she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her +mother’s maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath. +She wouldn’t let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her +and squeezed it up in a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the +soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow. + +But she didn’t say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and +put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half +an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around +her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o’clock she +married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a +three months’ trip to the South Seas. + +I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I’d +never seen a girl so mad about her husband. If he left the room for a +minute she’d look around uneasily, and say: “Where’s Tom gone?” and +wear the most abstracted expression until she saw him coming in the +door. She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the +hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with +unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together—it made you +laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I +left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, +and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got +into the papers, too, because her arm was broken—she was one of the +chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel. + +The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for +a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and +then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in +Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young +and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect +reputation. Perhaps because she doesn’t drink. It’s a great advantage +not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue and, +moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that +everybody else is so blind that they don’t see or care. Perhaps Daisy +never went in for amour at all—and yet there’s something in that voice +of hers … + +Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first +time in years. It was when I asked you—do you remember?—if you knew +Gatsby in West Egg. After you had gone home she came into my room and +woke me up, and said: “What Gatsby?” and when I described him—I was +half asleep—she said in the strangest voice that it must be the man +she used to know. It wasn’t until then that I connected this Gatsby +with the officer in her white car. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza +for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park. +The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in +the West Fifties, and the clear voices of children, already gathered +like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight: + + “I’m the Sheik of Araby. Your love belongs to me. At night when + you’re asleep Into your tent I’ll creep—” + +“It was a strange coincidence,” I said. + +“But it wasn’t a coincidence at all.” + +“Why not?” + +“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be just across the bay.” + +Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that +June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of +his purposeless splendour. + +“He wants to know,” continued Jordan, “if you’ll invite Daisy to your +house some afternoon and then let him come over.” + +The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and +bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths—so that +he could “come over” some afternoon to a stranger’s garden. + +“Did I have to know all this before he could ask such a little thing?” + +“He’s afraid, he’s waited so long. He thought you might be +offended. You see, he’s regular tough underneath it all.” + +Something worried me. + +“Why didn’t he ask you to arrange a meeting?” + +“He wants her to see his house,” she explained. “And your house is +right next door.” + +“Oh!” + +“I think he half expected her to wander into one of his parties, some +night,” went on Jordan, “but she never did. Then he began asking +people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It +was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard +the elaborate way he worked up to it. Of course, I immediately +suggested a luncheon in New York—and I thought he’d go mad: + +“ ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way!’ he kept saying. ‘I +want to see her right next door.’ + +“When I said you were a particular friend of Tom’s, he started to +abandon the whole idea. He doesn’t know very much about Tom, though he +says he’s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of +catching a glimpse of Daisy’s name.” + +It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm +around Jordan’s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her +to dinner. Suddenly I wasn’t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, +but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal +scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my +arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady +excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and +the tired.” + +“And Daisy ought to have something in her life,” murmured Jordan to +me. + +“Does she want to see Gatsby?” + +“She’s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn’t want her to know. You’re +just supposed to invite her to tea.” + +We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth +Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. +Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face +floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up +the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth +smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. + + + V + +When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that +my house was on fire. Two o’clock and the whole corner of the +peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery +and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a +corner, I saw that it was Gatsby’s house, lit from tower to cellar. + +At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved +itself into “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-the-box” with all the +house thrown open to the game. But there wasn’t a sound. Only wind in +the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on +again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned +away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. + +“Your place looks like the World’s Fair,” I said. + +“Does it?” He turned his eyes toward it absently. “I have been +glancing into some of the rooms. Let’s go to Coney Island, old +sport. In my car.” + +“It’s too late.” + +“Well, suppose we take a plunge in the swimming pool? I haven’t made +use of it all summer.” + +“I’ve got to go to bed.” + +“All right.” + +He waited, looking at me with suppressed eagerness. + +“I talked with Miss Baker,” I said after a moment. “I’m going to call +up Daisy tomorrow and invite her over here to tea.” + +“Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly. “I don’t want to put you +to any trouble.” + +“What day would suit you?” + +“What day would suit you?” he corrected me quickly. “I don’t want to +put you to any trouble, you see.” + +“How about the day after tomorrow?” + +He considered for a moment. Then, with reluctance: “I want to get the +grass cut,” he said. + +We both looked down at the grass—there was a sharp line where my +ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I +suspected that he meant my grass. + +“There’s another little thing,” he said uncertainly, and hesitated. + +“Would you rather put it off for a few days?” I asked. + +“Oh, it isn’t about that. At least—” He fumbled with a series of +beginnings. “Why, I thought—why, look here, old sport, you don’t make +much money, do you?” + +“Not very much.” + +This seemed to reassure him and he continued more confidently. + +“I thought you didn’t, if you’ll pardon my—you see, I carry on a +little business on the side, a sort of side line, you understand. And +I thought that if you don’t make very much—You’re selling bonds, +aren’t you, old sport?” + +“Trying to.” + +“Well, this would interest you. It wouldn’t take up much of your time +and you might pick up a nice bit of money. It happens to be a rather +confidential sort of thing.” + +I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation +might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer +was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no +choice except to cut him off there. + +“I’ve got my hands full,” I said. “I’m much obliged but I couldn’t +take on any more work.” + +“You wouldn’t have to do any business with Wolfshiem.” Evidently he +thought that I was shying away from the “gonnegtion” mentioned at +lunch, but I assured him he was wrong. He waited a moment longer, +hoping I’d begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be +responsive, so he went unwillingly home. + +The evening had made me lightheaded and happy; I think I walked into a +deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don’t know whether or not +Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he “glanced into +rooms” while his house blazed gaudily on. I called up Daisy from the +office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. + +“Don’t bring Tom,” I warned her. + +“What?” + +“Don’t bring Tom.” + +“Who is ‘Tom’?” she asked innocently. + +The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o’clock a man in a +raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that +Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I +had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg +Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy +some cups and lemons and flowers. + +The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o’clock a greenhouse arrived +from Gatsby’s, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour +later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby in a white flannel +suit, silver shirt, and gold-coloured tie, hurried in. He was pale, +and there were dark signs of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. + +“Is everything all right?” he asked immediately. + +“The grass looks fine, if that’s what you mean.” + +“What grass?” he inquired blankly. “Oh, the grass in the yard.” He +looked out the window at it, but, judging from his expression, I don’t +believe he saw a thing. + +“Looks very good,” he remarked vaguely. “One of the papers said they +thought the rain would stop about four. I think it was The +Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of—of tea?” + +I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at +the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the +delicatessen shop. + +“Will they do?” I asked. + +“Of course, of course! They’re fine!” and he added hollowly, “… old +sport.” + +The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which +occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes +through a copy of Clay’s Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that +shook the kitchen floor, and peering towards the bleared windows from +time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were +taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an +uncertain voice, that he was going home. + +“Why’s that?” + +“Nobody’s coming to tea. It’s too late!” He looked at his watch as if +there was some pressing demand on his time elsewhere. “I can’t wait +all day.” + +“Don’t be silly; it’s just two minutes to four.” + +He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously +there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped +up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard. + +Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the +drive. It stopped. Daisy’s face, tipped sideways beneath a +three-cornered lavender hat, looked out at me with a bright ecstatic +smile. + +“Is this absolutely where you live, my dearest one?” + +The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I +had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear +alone, before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a +dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with +glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. + +“Are you in love with me,” she said low in my ear, “or why did I have +to come alone?” + +“That’s the secret of Castle Rackrent. Tell your chauffeur to go far +away and spend an hour.” + +“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur: “His name is +Ferdie.” + +“Does the gasoline affect his nose?” + +“I don’t think so,” she said innocently. “Why?” + +We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living-room was deserted. + +“Well, that’s funny,” I exclaimed. + +“What’s funny?” + +She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the +front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his +hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a +puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. + +With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the +hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the +living-room. It wasn’t a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my +own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. + +For half a minute there wasn’t a sound. Then from the living-room I +heard a sort of choking murmur and part of a laugh, followed by +Daisy’s voice on a clear artificial note: + +“I certainly am awfully glad to see you again.” + +A pause; it endured horribly. I had nothing to do in the hall, so I +went into the room. + +Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the +mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of +boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face +of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught +eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, +on the edge of a stiff chair. + +“We’ve met before,” muttered Gatsby. His eyes glanced momentarily at +me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily +the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his +head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers, and +set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm +of the sofa and his chin in his hand. + +“I’m sorry about the clock,” he said. + +My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn’t muster up +a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head. + +“It’s an old clock,” I told them idiotically. + +I think we all believed for a moment that it had smashed in pieces on +the floor. + +“We haven’t met for many years,” said Daisy, her voice as +matter-of-fact as it could ever be. + +“Five years next November.” + +The automatic quality of Gatsby’s answer set us all back at least +another minute. I had them both on their feet with the desperate +suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac +Finn brought it in on a tray. + +Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical +decency established itself. Gatsby got himself into a shadow and, +while Daisy and I talked, looked conscientiously from one to the other +of us with tense, unhappy eyes. However, as calmness wasn’t an end in +itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my +feet. + +“Where are you going?” demanded Gatsby in immediate alarm. + +“I’ll be back.” + +“I’ve got to speak to you about something before you go.” + +He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and +whispered: “Oh, God!” in a miserable way. + +“What’s the matter?” + +“This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from side to +side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.” + +“You’re just embarrassed, that’s all,” and luckily I added: “Daisy’s +embarrassed too.” + +“She’s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously. + +“Just as much as you are.” + +“Don’t talk so loud.” + +“You’re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently. “Not only +that, but you’re rude. Daisy’s sitting in there all alone.” + +He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable +reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other +room. + +I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his +nervous circuit of the house half an hour before—and ran for a huge +black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the +rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by +Gatsby’s gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric +marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except +Gatsby’s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church +steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period” +craze, a decade before, and there was a story that he’d agreed to pay +five years’ taxes on all the neighbouring cottages if the owners would +have their roofs thatched with straw. Perhaps their refusal took the +heart out of his plan to Found a Family—he went into an immediate +decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on +the door. Americans, while willing, even eager, to be serfs, have +always been obstinate about being peasantry. + +After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer’s automobile +rounded Gatsby’s drive with the raw material for his servants’ +dinner—I felt sure he wouldn’t eat a spoonful. A maid began opening +the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, +leaning from the large central bay, spat meditatively into the +garden. It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had +seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little +now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that +silence had fallen within the house too. + +I went in—after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of +pushing over the stove—but I don’t believe they heard a sound. They +were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if +some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of +embarrassment was gone. Daisy’s face was smeared with tears, and when +I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief +before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply +confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of +exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little +room. + +“Oh, hello, old sport,” he said, as if he hadn’t seen me for years. I +thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. + +“It’s stopped raining.” + +“Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were +twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, +like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to +Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.” + +“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told +only of her unexpected joy. + +“I want you and Daisy to come over to my house,” he said, “I’d like to +show her around.” + +“You’re sure you want me to come?” + +“Absolutely, old sport.” + +Daisy went upstairs to wash her face—too late I thought with +humiliation of my towels—while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn. + +“My house looks well, doesn’t it?” he demanded. “See how the whole +front of it catches the light.” + +I agreed that it was splendid. + +“Yes.” His eyes went over it, every arched door and square tower. “It +took me just three years to earn the money that bought it.” + +“I thought you inherited your money.” + +“I did, old sport,” he said automatically, “but I lost most of it in +the big panic—the panic of the war.” + +I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what +business he was in he answered: “That’s my affair,” before he realized +that it wasn’t an appropriate reply. + +“Oh, I’ve been in several things,” he corrected himself. “I was in the +drug business and then I was in the oil business. But I’m not in +either one now.” He looked at me with more attention. “Do you mean +you’ve been thinking over what I proposed the other night?” + +Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of +brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. + +“That huge place there?” she cried pointing. + +“Do you like it?” + +“I love it, but I don’t see how you live there all alone.” + +“I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People +who do interesting things. Celebrated people.” + +Instead of taking the shortcut along the Sound we went down to the +road and entered by the big postern. With enchanting murmurs Daisy +admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, +admired the gardens, the sparkling odour of jonquils and the frothy +odour of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odour of +kiss-me-at-the-gate. It was strange to reach the marble steps and find +no stir of bright dresses in and out the door, and hear no sound but +bird voices in the trees. + +And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and +Restoration Salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind +every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we +had passed through. As Gatsby closed the door of “the Merton College +Library” I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into +ghostly laughter. + +We went upstairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender +silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, +and bathrooms with sunken baths—intruding into one chamber where a +dishevelled man in pyjamas was doing liver exercises on the floor. It +was Mr. Klipspringer, the “boarder.” I had seen him wandering hungrily +about the beach that morning. Finally we came to Gatsby’s own +apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam’s study, where we sat +down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in +the wall. + +He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued +everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew +from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes too, he stared around at his +possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding +presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a +flight of stairs. + +His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was +garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush +with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and +shaded his eyes and began to laugh. + +“It’s the funniest thing, old sport,” he said hilariously. “I +can’t—When I try to—” + +He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a +third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed +with wonder at her presence. He had been full of the idea so long, +dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to +speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity. Now, in the reaction, +he was running down like an over-wound clock. + +Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent +cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and +his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high. + +“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a +selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.” + +He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, +before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, +which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in +many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft +rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in +coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of +indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into +the shirts and began to cry stormily. + +“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the +thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such +beautiful shirts before.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming pool, and +the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby’s window +it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated +surface of the Sound. + +“If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay,” +said Gatsby. “You always have a green light that burns all night at +the end of your dock.” + +Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what +he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal +significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the +great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very +near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to +the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of +enchanted objects had diminished by one. + +I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects +in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting +costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. + +“Who’s this?” + +“That? That’s Mr. Dan Cody, old sport.” + +The name sounded faintly familiar. + +“He’s dead now. He used to be my best friend years ago.” + +There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the +bureau—Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly—taken apparently +when he was about eighteen. + +“I adore it,” exclaimed Daisy. “The pompadour! You never told me you +had a pompadour—or a yacht.” + +“Look at this,” said Gatsby quickly. “Here’s a lot of clippings—about +you.” + +They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the +rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. + +“Yes … Well, I can’t talk now … I can’t talk now, old sport … I said a +small town … He must know what a small town is … Well, he’s no use to +us if Detroit is his idea of a small town …” + +He rang off. + +“Come here quick!” cried Daisy at the window. + +The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, +and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea. + +“Look at that,” she whispered, and then after a moment: “I’d like to +just get one of those pink clouds and put you in it and push you +around.” + +I tried to go then, but they wouldn’t hear of it; perhaps my presence +made them feel more satisfactorily alone. + +“I know what we’ll do,” said Gatsby, “we’ll have Klipspringer play the +piano.” + +He went out of the room calling “Ewing!” and returned in a few minutes +accompanied by an embarrassed, slightly worn young man, with +shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now decently +clothed in a “sport shirt,” open at the neck, sneakers, and duck +trousers of a nebulous hue. + +“Did we interrupt your exercise?” inquired Daisy politely. + +“I was asleep,” cried Mr. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. +“That is, I’d been asleep. Then I got up …” + +“Klipspringer plays the piano,” said Gatsby, cutting him off. “Don’t +you, Ewing, old sport?” + +“I don’t play well. I don’t—hardly play at all. I’m all out of prac—” + +“We’ll go downstairs,” interrupted Gatsby. He flipped a switch. The +grey windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. + +In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano. +He lit Daisy’s cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her +on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the +gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. + +When Klipspringer had played “The Love Nest” he turned around on the +bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom. + +“I’m all out of practice, you see. I told you I couldn’t play. I’m all +out of prac—” + +“Don’t talk so much, old sport,” commanded Gatsby. “Play!” + + “In the morning, In the evening, Ain’t we got fun—” + +Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along +the Sound. All the lights were going on in West Egg now; the electric +trains, men-carrying, were plunging home through the rain from New +York. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was +generating on the air. + + “One thing’s sure and nothing’s surer The rich get richer and the + poor get—children. In the meantime, In between time—” + +As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of +bewilderment had come back into Gatsby’s face, as though a faint doubt +had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost +five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when +Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but +because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond +her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative +passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright +feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can +challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. + +As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took +hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned +toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, +with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn’t be +over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song. + +They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; +Gatsby didn’t know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they +looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went +out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them +there together. + + + VI + +About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one +morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say. + +“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely. + +“Why—any statement to give out.” + +It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard +Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either +wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and +with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.” + +It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. +Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his +hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all +summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends +such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to +him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house +at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly +up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a +source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to +say. + +James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had +changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that +witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht +drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was +James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a +torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay +Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and +informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an +hour. + +I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His +parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination +had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was +that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic +conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means +anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business, +the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented +just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be +likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end. + +For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of +Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other +capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body +lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing +days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became +contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of +the others because they were hysterical about things which in his +overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted. + +But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque +and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of +ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock +ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled +clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his +fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an +oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for +his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of +reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on +a fairy’s wing. + +An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before, +to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota. He +stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the +drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor’s +work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to +Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the +day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore. + +Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields, +of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The +transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire +found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and, +suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him +from his money. The none too savoury ramifications by which Ella Kaye, +the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and +sent him to sea in a yacht, were common property of the turgid +journalism in 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable +shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz’s destiny in +Little Girl Bay. + +To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, +that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I +suppose he smiled at Cody—he had probably discovered that people liked +him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of +them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and +extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and +bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a +yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the +Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too. + +He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with +Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even +jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk +might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by +reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five +years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent. +It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye +came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody +inhospitably died. + +I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a grey, florid +man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one +phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage +violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to +Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay +parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he +formed the habit of letting liquor alone. + +And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five +thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal +device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions +went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate +education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the +substantiality of a man. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with +the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents, +which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time +of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and +nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while +Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of +misconceptions away. + +It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several +weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in +New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself +with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday +afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom +Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really +surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before. + +They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and +a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously. + +“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m +delighted that you dropped in.” + +As though they cared! + +“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the +room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in +just a minute.” + +He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he +would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in +a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted +nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, +thanks … I’m sorry— + +“Did you have a nice ride?” + +“Very good roads around here.” + +“I suppose the automobiles—” + +“Yeah.” + +Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had +accepted the introduction as a stranger. + +“I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. +“So we did. I remember very well.” + +“About two weeks ago.” + +“That’s right. You were with Nick here.” + +“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively. + +“That so?” + +Tom turned to me. + +“You live near here, Nick?” + +“Next door.” + +“That so?” + +Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back +haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until +unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial. + +“We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. +“What do you say?” + +“Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.” + +“Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought +to be starting home.” + +“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself +now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you +stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped +in from New York.” + +“You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of +you.” + +This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet. + +“Come along,” he said—but to her only. + +“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.” + +Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see +that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t. + +“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said. + +“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby. + +Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear. + +“We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud. + +“I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but +I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse +me for just a minute.” + +The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady +began an impassioned conversation aside. + +“My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she +doesn’t want him?” + +“She says she does want him.” + +“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He +frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be +old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to +suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.” + +Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted +their horses. + +“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And +then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?” + +Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they +trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage +just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the +front door. + +Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on +the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s +party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of +oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties +that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of +people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, +many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a +pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had +merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete +in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to +nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was +looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening +to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your +own powers of adjustment. + +They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling +hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat. + +“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me +any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad +to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. +I’m giving out green—” + +“Look around,” suggested Gatsby. + +“I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—” + +“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.” + +Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd. + +“We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking +I don’t know a soul here.” + +“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely +human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom +and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies +the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies. + +“She’s lovely,” said Daisy. + +“The man bending over her is her director.” + +He took them ceremoniously from group to group: + +“Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he +added: “the polo player.” + +“Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” + +But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the +polo player” for the rest of the evening. + +“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that +man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” + +Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. + +“Well, I liked him anyhow.” + +“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, +“I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” + +Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, +conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they +sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, +while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case +there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” + +Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper +together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he +said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” + +“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any +addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a +moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that +except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t +having a good time. + +We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had +been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two +weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air +now. + +“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” + +The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my +shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. + +“Wha’?” + +A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf +with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: + +“Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she +always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it +alone.” + +“I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. + +“We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody +that needs your help, Doc.’ ” + +“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without +gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in +the pool.” + +“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss +Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” + +“Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. + +“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand +shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” + +It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with +Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were +still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except +for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he +had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this +proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate +degree and kiss at her cheek. + +“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” + +But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture +but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented +“place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing +village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old +euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants +along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in +the very simplicity she failed to understand. + +I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. +It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet +of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow +moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, +an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an +invisible glass. + +“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big +bootlegger?” + +“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. + +“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are +just big bootleggers, you know.” + +“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. + +He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under +his feet. + +“Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie +together.” + +A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. + +“At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said +with an effort. + +“You didn’t look so interested.” + +“Well, I was.” + +Tom laughed and turned to me. + +“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under +a cold shower?” + +Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, +bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and +would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up +sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change +tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. + +“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said +suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way +in and he’s too polite to object.” + +“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I +think I’ll make a point of finding out.” + +“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a +lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” + +The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. + +“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. + +Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where +“Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, +was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of +Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from +her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling +her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? +Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare +and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with +one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would +blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. + +I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, +and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had +run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights +were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the +steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, +and his eyes were bright and tired. + +“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. + +“Of course she did.” + +“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” + +He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. + +“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her +understand.” + +“You mean about the dance?” + +“The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of +his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” + +He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and +say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with +that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be +taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back +to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five +years ago. + +“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to +understand. We’d sit for hours—” + +He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit +rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. + +“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the +past.” + +“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you +can!” + +He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the +shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. + +“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, +nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” + +He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to +recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into +loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, +but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it +all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … + +… One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the +street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where +there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They +stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night +with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes +of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the +darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the +corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really +formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could +climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the +pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. + +His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He +knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable +visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like +the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the +tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At +his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the +incarnation was complete. + +Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was +reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, +that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase +tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, +as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled +air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was +uncommunicable forever. + + + VII + +It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights +in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as +it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I +become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his +drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering +if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a +villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door. + +“Is Mr. Gatsby sick?” + +“Nope.” After a pause he added “sir” in a dilatory, grudging way. + +“I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. +Carraway came over.” + +“Who?” he demanded rudely. + +“Carraway.” + +“Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” + +Abruptly he slammed the door. + +My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his +house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never +went into West Egg village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered +moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that +the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the +village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. + +Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. + +“Going away?” I inquired. + +“No, old sport.” + +“I hear you fired all your servants.” + +“I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite +often—in the afternoons.” + +So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the +disapproval in her eyes. + +“They’re some people Wolfshiem wanted to do something for. They’re all +brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.” + +“I see.” + +He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her +house tomorrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy +herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was +coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would +choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing +scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. + +The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of +the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only +the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering +hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of +combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into +her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her +fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her +pocketbook slapped to the floor. + +“Oh, my!” she gasped. + +I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it +at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that +I had no designs upon it—but everyone near by, including the woman, +suspected me just the same. + +“Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! … Hot! … +Hot! … Hot! … Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it … ?” + +My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. +That anyone should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, +whose head made damp the pyjama pocket over his heart! + +… Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying +the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at +the door. + +“The master’s body?” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m +sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this +noon!” + +What he really said was: “Yes … Yes … I’ll see.” + +He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to +take our stiff straw hats. + +“Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the +direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the +common store of life. + +The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and +Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down +their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans. + +“We can’t move,” they said together. + +Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment +in mine. + +“And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired. + +Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall +telephone. + +Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with +fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting +laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air. + +“The rumour is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the +telephone.” + +We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very +well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all … I’m under no obligations +to you at all … and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I +won’t stand that at all!” + +“Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically. + +“No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to +know about it.” + +Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his +thick body, and hurried into the room. + +“Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed +dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir … Nick …” + +“Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy. + +As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and +pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth. + +“You know I love you,” she murmured. + +“You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan. + +Daisy looked around doubtfully. + +“You kiss Nick too.” + +“What a low, vulgar girl!” + +“I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. +Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just +as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room. + +“Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your +own mother that loves you.” + +The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and +rooted shyly into her mother’s dress. + +“The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy +hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.” + +Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small reluctant hand. +Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he +had ever really believed in its existence before. + +“I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to +Daisy. + +“That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent +into the single wrinkle of the small white neck. “You dream, you. You +absolute little dream.” + +“Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress +too.” + +“How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that +she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?” + +“Where’s Daddy?” + +“She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like +me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.” + +Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held +out her hand. + +“Come, Pammy.” + +“Goodbye, sweetheart!” + +With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to +her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, +preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice. + +Gatsby took up his drink. + +“They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension. + +We drank in long, greedy swallows. + +“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom +genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into +the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting +colder every year. + +“Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look +at the place.” + +I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in +the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. +Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed +across the bay. + +“I’m right across from you.” + +“So you are.” + +Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy +refuse of the dog-days alongshore. Slowly the white wings of the boat +moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped +ocean and the abounding blessed isles. + +“There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there +with him for about an hour.” + +We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and +drank down nervous gaiety with the cold ale. + +“What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the +day after that, and the next thirty years?” + +“Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it +gets crisp in the fall.” + +“But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and +everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!” + +Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, moulding +its senselessness into forms. + +“I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to +Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a +garage.” + +“Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes +floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.” + +Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in +space. With an effort she glanced down at the table. + +“You always look so cool,” she repeated. + +She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was +astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and +then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew +a long time ago. + +“You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. +“You know the advertisement of the man—” + +“All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to +town. Come on—we’re all going to town.” + +He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one +moved. + +“Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? +If we’re going to town, let’s start.” + +His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips +the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out +on to the blazing gravel drive. + +“Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going +to let anyone smoke a cigarette first?” + +“Everybody smoked all through lunch.” + +“Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” + +He didn’t answer. + +“Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.” + +They went upstairs to get ready while we three men stood there +shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon +hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed +his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. + +“Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. + +“About a quarter of a mile down the road.” + +“Oh.” + +A pause. + +“I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. +“Women get these notions in their heads—” + +“Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. + +“I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. + +Gatsby turned to me rigidly: + +“I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” + +“She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I +hesitated. + +“Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. + +That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that +was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of +it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s +daughter, the golden girl … + +Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed +by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and +carrying light capes over their arms. + +“Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green +leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” + +“Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. + +“Yes.” + +“Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” + +The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. + +“I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. + +“Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And +if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a +drugstore nowadays.” + +A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom +frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar +and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in +words, passed over Gatsby’s face. + +“Come on, Daisy” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s +car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” + +He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. + +“You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” + +She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan +and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the +unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive +heat, leaving them out of sight behind. + +“Did you see that?” demanded Tom. + +“See what?” + +He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known +all along. + +“You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, +but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to +do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” + +He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back +from the edge of theoretical abyss. + +“I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I +could have gone deeper if I’d known—” + +“Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously. + +“What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?” + +“About Gatsby.” + +“About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small +investigation of his past.” + +“And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully. + +“An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink +suit.” + +“Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.” + +“Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like +that.” + +“Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” +demanded Jordan crossly. + +“Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows +where!” + +We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we +drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded +eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution +about gasoline. + +“We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom. + +“But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to +get stalled in this baking heat.” + +Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty +stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from +the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car. + +“Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we +stopped for—to admire the view?” + +“I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.” + +“What’s the matter?” + +“I’m all run down.” + +“Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on +the phone.” + +With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and, +breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his +face was green. + +“I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money +pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your +old car.” + +“How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.” + +“It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle. + +“Like to buy it?” + +“Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money +on the other.” + +“What do you want money for, all of a sudden?” + +“I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go +West.” + +“Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled. + +“She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment +against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she +wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.” + +The coupé flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a +waving hand. + +“What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly. + +“I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked +Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering +you about the car.” + +“What do I owe you?” + +“Dollar twenty.” + +The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a +bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t +alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life +apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically +sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel +discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there +was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as +the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that +he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor +girl with child. + +“I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow +afternoon.” + +That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare +of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of +something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. +Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that +other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than +twenty feet away. + +In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved +aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So +engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and +one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a +slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it +was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle +Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized +that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on +Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we +drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his +mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping +precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the +accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving +Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an +hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in +sight of the easygoing blue coupé. + +“Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested +Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. +There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of +funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” + +The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but +before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy +signalled us to draw up alongside. + +“Where are we going?” she cried. + +“How about the movies?” + +“It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you +after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some +corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” + +“We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave +out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of +Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” + +Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if +the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I +think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his +life forever. + +But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging +the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. + +The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into +that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in +the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around +my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. +The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five +bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as +“a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it +was a “crazy idea”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and +thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … + +The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four +o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery +from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, +fixing her hair. + +“It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone +laughed. + +“Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. + +“There aren’t any more.” + +“Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” + +“The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. +“You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” + +He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the +table. + +“Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one +that wanted to come to town.” + +There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its +nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse +me”—but this time no one laughed. + +“I’ll pick it up,” I offered. + +“I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in +an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair. + +“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply. + +“What is?” + +“All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” + +“Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if +you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. +Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” + +As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound +and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s +Wedding March from the ballroom below. + +“Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. + +“Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. +“Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” + +“Biloxi,” he answered shortly. + +“A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a +fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” + +“They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived +just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy +told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After +a moment she added. “There wasn’t any connection.” + +“I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. + +“That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he +left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” + +The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer +floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of +“Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. + +“We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and +dance.” + +“Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” + +“Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a +friend of Daisy’s.” + +“He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in +the private car.” + +“Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa +Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room +for him.” + +Jordan smiled. + +“He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of +your class at Yale.” + +Tom and I looked at each other blankly. + +“Biloxi?” + +“First place, we didn’t have any president—” + +Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. + +“By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” + +“Not exactly.” + +“Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” + +“Yes—I went there.” + +A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: + +“You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” + +Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice +but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing +of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. + +“I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. + +“I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” + +“It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I +can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” + +Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all +looking at Gatsby. + +“It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the +armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in +England or France.” + +I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those +renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. + +Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. + +“Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. +Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” + +“Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more +question.” + +“Go on,” Gatsby said politely. + +“What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” + +They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. + +“He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the +other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” + +“Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest +thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your +wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people +begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next +they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between +black and white.” + +Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone +on the last barrier of civilization. + +“We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. + +“I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose +you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any +friends—in the modern world.” + +Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he +opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so +complete. + +“I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy +guessed at his intention. + +“Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go +home. Why don’t we all go home?” + +“That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” + +“I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” + +“Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. +She loves me.” + +“You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. + +Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. + +“She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you +because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a +terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” + +At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted +with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had +anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously +of their emotions. + +“Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal +note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” + +“I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five +years—and you didn’t know.” + +Tom turned to Daisy sharply. + +“You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” + +“Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved +each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to +laugh sometimes”—but there was no laughter in his eyes—“to think that +you didn’t know.” + +“Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a +clergyman and leaned back in his chair. + +“You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five +years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I +see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries +to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy +loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” + +“No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. + +“She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish +ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded +sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off +on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in +my heart I love her all the time.” + +“You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, +dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do +you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you +to the story of that little spree.” + +Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. + +“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter +any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s +all wiped out forever.” + +She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” + +“You never loved him.” + +She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, +as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she +had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done +now. It was too late. + +“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. + +“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. + +“No.” + +From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were +drifting up on hot waves of air. + +“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your +shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone … “Daisy?” + +“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. +She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried +to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette +and the burning match on the carpet. + +“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t +that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob +helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” + +Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. + +“You loved me too?” he repeated. + +“Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were +alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, +things that neither of us can ever forget.” + +The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. + +“I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited +now—” + +“Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful +voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” + +“Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. + +She turned to her husband. + +“As if it mattered to you,” she said. + +“Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now +on.” + +“You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re +not going to take care of her any more.” + +“I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to +control himself now. “Why’s that?” + +“Daisy’s leaving you.” + +“Nonsense.” + +“I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. + +“She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. +“Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he +put on her finger.” + +“I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” + +“Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that +hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve +made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it +further tomorrow.” + +“You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. + +“I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke +rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street +drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the +counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a +bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” + +“What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter +Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” + +“And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for +a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the +subject of you.” + +“He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old +sport.” + +“Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said +nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but +Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” + +That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. + +“That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, +“but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me +about.” + +I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her +husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but +absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to +Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said +in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had +“killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in +just that fantastic way. + +It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying +everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been +made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into +herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the +afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, +struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across +the room. + +The voice begged again to go. + +“Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” + +Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage +she had had, were definitely gone. + +“You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” + +She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous +scorn. + +“Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous +little flirtation is over.” + +They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, +isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. + +After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of +whisky in the towel. + +“Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” + +I didn’t answer. + +“Nick?” He asked again. + +“What?” + +“Want any?” + +“No … I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” + +I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a +new decade. + +It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupé with him and started +for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but +his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamour on +the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy +has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments +fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of +loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning +briefcase of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside +me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten +dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face +fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of +thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand. + +So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the +ash-heaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept +through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the +garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale +as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go +to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if +he did. While his neighbour was trying to persuade him a violent +racket broke out overhead. + +“I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. +“She’s going to stay there till the day after tomorrow, and then we’re +going to move away.” + +Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbours for four years, and +Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. +Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he +sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars +that passed along the road. When anyone spoke to him he invariably +laughed in an agreeable, colourless way. He was his wife’s man and not +his own. + +So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson +wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious +glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain +times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some +workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis +took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he +didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside +again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation +because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, downstairs in +the garage. + +“Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty +little coward!” + +A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and +shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over. + +The “death car” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out +of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then +disappeared around the next bend. Mavro Michaelis wasn’t even sure of +its colour—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The +other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards +beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life +violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark +blood with the dust. + +Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open +her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left +breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen +for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped a little at +the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the +tremendous vitality she had stored so long. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still +some distance away. + +“Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at +last.” + +He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as +we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage +door made him automatically put on the brakes. + +“We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.” + +I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly +from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupé and walked +toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered +over and over in a gasping moan. + +“There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly. + +He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the +garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging metal +basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a +violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way +through. + +The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it +was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals +deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside. + +Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another +blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on +a worktable by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending +over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking +down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I +couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed +clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the +raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to +the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low +voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his +shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly +from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk +back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, +horrible call: + +“Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od!” + +Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around +the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to +the policeman. + +“M-a-v—” the policeman was saying, “—o—” + +“No, r—” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o—” + +“Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely. + +“r—” said the policeman, “o—” + +“g—” + +“g—” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. +“What you want, fella?” + +“What happened?—that’s what I want to know.” + +“Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.” + +“Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring. + +“She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.” + +“There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?” + +“Going where?” asked the policeman keenly. + +“One goin’ each way. Well, she”—his hand rose toward the blankets but +stopped halfway and fell to his side—“she ran out there an’ the one +comin’ from N’York knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles +an hour.” + +“What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer. + +“Hasn’t got any name.” + +A pale well-dressed negro stepped near. + +“It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.” + +“See the accident?” asked the policeman. + +“No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going +fifty, sixty.” + +“Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his +name.” + +Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in +the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his +grasping cries: + +“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind +of car it was!” + +Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten +under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in +front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. + +“You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing +gruffness. + +Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then +would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright. + +“Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute +ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking +about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you +hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” + +Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the +policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent +eyes. + +“What’s all that?” he demanded. + +“I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on +Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow +car.” + +Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. + +“And what colour’s your car?” + +“It’s a blue car, a coupé.” + +“We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. + +Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and +the policeman turned away. + +“Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” + +Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set +him down in a chair, and came back. + +“If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped +authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced +at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the +door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the +table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.” + +Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we +pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, +case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago. + +Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down +hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I +heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down +his face. + +“The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark +rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the +second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. + +“Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and +frowned slightly. + +“I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can +do tonight.” + +A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. +As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of +the situation in a few brisk phrases. + +“I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting +you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some +supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.” + +“No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait +outside.” + +Jordan put her hand on my arm. + +“Won’t you come in, Nick?” + +“No, thanks.” + +I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan +lingered for a moment more. + +“It’s only half-past nine,” she said. + +I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, +and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of +this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the +porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head +in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s +voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from +the house, intending to wait by the gate. + +I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped +from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird +by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity +of his pink suit under the moon. + +“What are you doing?” I inquired. + +“Just standing here, old sport.” + +Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was +going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to +see sinister faces, the faces of “Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in +the dark shrubbery. + +“Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. + +“Yes.” + +He hesitated. + +“Was she killed?” + +“Yes.” + +“I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock +should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” + +He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. + +“I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in +my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be +sure.” + +I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to +tell him he was wrong. + +“Who was the woman?” he inquired. + +“Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did +it happen?” + +“Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I +guessed at the truth. + +“Was Daisy driving?” + +“Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, +when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would +steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were +passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but +it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were +somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward +the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second +my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her +instantly.” + +“It ripped her open—” + +“Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I +tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency +brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. + +“She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to +wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness +this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries +any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” + +“He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” + +“I don’t trust him, old sport.” + +“How long are you going to wait?” + +“All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” + +A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy +had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might +think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright +windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground +floor. + +“You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a +commotion.” + +I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel +softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains +were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where +we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small +rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind +was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. + +Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, +with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of +ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his +earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a +while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. + +They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the +ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air +of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said +that they were conspiring together. + +As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the +dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in +the drive. + +“Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. + +“Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get +some sleep.” + +He shook his head. + +“I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” + +He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his +scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of +the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the +moonlight—watching over nothing. + + + VIII + +I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the +Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, +frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, +and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I +had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning +would be too late. + +Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was +leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep. + +“Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock +she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned +out the light.” + +His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when +we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside +curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of +dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of +splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable +amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they +hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar +table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French +windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness. + +“You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace +your car.” + +“Go away now, old sport?” + +“Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.” + +He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he +knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and +I couldn’t bear to shake him free. + +It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with +Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby” had broken up like glass +against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played +out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without +reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy. + +She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed +capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with +indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly +desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from +Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a +beautiful house before. But what gave it an air of breathless +intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her +as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, +a hint of bedrooms upstairs more beautiful and cool than other +bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its +corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already +in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s +shining motorcars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely +withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved +Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all +about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still +vibrant emotions. + +But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal +accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was +at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the +invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he +made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and +unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took +her because he had no real right to touch her hand. + +He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under +false pretences. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom +millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he +let her believe that he was a person from much the same strata as +herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of +fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing +behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government +to be blown anywhere about the world. + +But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had +imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but +now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a +grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize +just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her +rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt +married to her, that was all. + +When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, +who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought +luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as +she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She +had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming +than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and +mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many +clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the +hot struggles of the poor. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, +old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she +didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot +because I knew different things from her … Well, there I was, way off +my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden +I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have +a better time telling her what I was going to do?” + +On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his +arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the +room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his +arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon +had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory +for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer +in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with +another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder +or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were +asleep. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he +went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his +majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the +armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or +misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there +was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see +why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world +outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her +and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all. + +For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids +and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of +the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new +tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the +“Beale Street Blues” while a hundred pairs of golden and silver +slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the grey tea hour there were +always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, +while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the +sad horns around the floor. + +Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the +season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with +half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and +chiffon of an evening-dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor +beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a +decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision +must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestionable +practicality—that was close at hand. + +That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom +Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his +position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain +struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was +still at Oxford. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of +the windows downstairs, filling the house with grey-turning, +gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew +and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a +slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, +lovely day. + +“I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window +and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was +very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that +frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap +sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.” + +He sat down gloomily. + +“Of course she might have loved him just for a minute, when they were +first married—and loved me more even then, do you see?” + +Suddenly he came out with a curious remark. + +“In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.” + +What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his +conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured? + +He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their +wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to +Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, +walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through +the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which +they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always +seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea +of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded +with a melancholy beauty. + +He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found +her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless +now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a +folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar +buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow +trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have +seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street. + +The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which, as it +sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing +city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand +desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of +the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too +fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part +of it, the freshest and the best, forever. + +It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the +porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there +was an autumn flavour in the air. The gardener, the last one of +Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps. + +“I’m going to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start +falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.” + +“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. +“You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?” + +I looked at my watch and stood up. + +“Twelve minutes to my train.” + +I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of +work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I +missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away. + +“I’ll call you up,” I said finally. + +“Do, old sport.” + +“I’ll call you about noon.” + +We walked slowly down the steps. + +“I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he +hoped I’d corroborate this. + +“I suppose so.” + +“Well, goodbye.” + +We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I +remembered something and turned around. + +“They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the +whole damn bunch put together.” + +I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever +gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he +nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and +understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact +all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of +colour against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I +first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and +drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his +corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his +incorruptible dream, as he waved them goodbye. + +I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for +that—I and the others. + +“Goodbye,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.” + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an +interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. +Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat +breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me +up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between +hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other +way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, +as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the +office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry. + +“I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going +down to Southampton this afternoon.” + +Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act +annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid. + +“You weren’t so nice to me last night.” + +“How could it have mattered then?” + +Silence for a moment. Then: + +“However—I want to see you.” + +“I want to see you, too.” + +“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this +afternoon?” + +“No—I don’t think this afternoon.” + +“Very well.” + +“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—” + +We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking +any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I +know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table +that day if I never talked to her again in this world. + +I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I +tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was +being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my +timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I +leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed +deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a +curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark +spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what +had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he +could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was +forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at +the garage after we left there the night before. + +They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have +broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she +was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had +already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she +immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the +affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in +the wake of her sister’s body. + +Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front +of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on +the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and +everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. +Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis +and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later +two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger +to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own +place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with +Wilson until dawn. + +About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering +changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He +announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car +belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his +wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose +swollen. + +But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, +my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt +to distract him. + +“How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit +still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been +married?” + +“Twelve years.” + +“Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a +question. Did you ever have any children?” + +The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and +whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it +sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. +He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was +stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably +around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from +time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet. + +“Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you +haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church +and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?” + +“Don’t belong to any.” + +“You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must +have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, +George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” + +“That was a long time ago.” + +The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment +he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came +back into his faded eyes. + +“Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. + +“Which drawer?” + +“That drawer—that one.” + +Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it +but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided +silver. It was apparently new. + +“This?” he inquired, holding it up. + +Wilson stared and nodded. + +“I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I +knew it was something funny.” + +“You mean your wife bought it?” + +“She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” + +Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen +reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably +Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, +because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter +left several explanations in the air. + +“Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. + +“Who did?” + +“I have a way of finding out.” + +“You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to +you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit +quiet till morning.” + +“He murdered her.” + +“It was an accident, George.” + +Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened +slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!” + +“I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I +don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know +it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he +wouldn’t stop.” + +Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there +was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had +been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any +particular car. + +“How could she of been like that?” + +“She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. +“Ah-h-h—” + +He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his +hand. + +“Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?” + +This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: +there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later +when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, +and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue +enough outside to snap off the light. + +Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey +clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the +faint dawn wind. + +“I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she +might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the +window”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and +leaned with his face pressed against it—“and I said ‘God knows what +you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but +you can’t fool God!’ ” + +Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at +the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and +enormous, from the dissolving night. + +“God sees everything,” repeated Wilson. + +“That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him +turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson +stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding +into the twilight. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a +car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before +who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which +he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and +Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and +hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone. + +His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to +Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that +he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and +walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far +there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who +had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared +oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared +from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, +that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time +going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On +the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and +perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to +know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the +way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the +butler that if anyone phoned word was to be brought to him at the +pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had +amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him to +pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be +taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the +front right fender needed repair. + +Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he +stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he +needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among +the yellowing trees. + +No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep +and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was anyone +to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t +believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was +true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a +high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have +looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered +as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight +was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without +being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted +fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward +him through the amorphous trees. + +The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfshiem’s protégés—heard the +shots—afterwards he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything +much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house +and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that +alarmed anyone. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a +word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I hurried +down to the pool. + +There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the +fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. +With little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden +mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that +scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental +course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves +revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of transit, a thin red +circle in the water. + +It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener +saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was +complete. + + + IX + +After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and +the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and +newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched +across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but +little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and +there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the +pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the +expression “madman” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and +the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper +reports next morning. + +Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, +eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought +to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale +would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might +have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount +of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes +under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never +seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, +that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced +herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very +suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a +man “deranged by grief” in order that the case might remain in its +simplest form. And it rested there. + +But all this part of it seemed remote and unessential. I found myself +on Gatsby’s side, and alone. From the moment I telephoned news of the +catastrophe to West Egg village, every surmise about him, and every +practical question, was referred to me. At first I was surprised and +confused; then, as he lay in his house and didn’t move or breathe or +speak, hour upon hour, it grew upon me that I was responsible, because +no one else was interested—interested, I mean, with that intense +personal interest to which everyone has some vague right at the end. + +I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her +instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away +early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them. + +“Left no address?” + +“No.” + +“Say when they’d be back?” + +“No.” + +“Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?” + +“I don’t know. Can’t say.” + +I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where +he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t +worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you—” + +Meyer Wolfshiem’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me +his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the +time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the +phone. + +“Will you ring again?” + +“I’ve rung three times.” + +“It’s very important.” + +“Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.” + +I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they +were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled +it. But, though they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with +shocked eyes, his protest continued in my brain: + +“Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got +to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.” + +Someone started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going +upstairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d +never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was +nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, +staring down from the wall. + +Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfshiem, +which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next +train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure +he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a +wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfshiem +arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and +newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfshiem’s answer I began +to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby +and me against them all. + + Dear Mr. Carraway. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of + my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a + mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down + now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get + mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little + later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when + I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and + out. + + Yours truly + + Meyer Wolfshiem + +and then hasty addenda beneath: + + Let me know about the funeral etc do not know his family at all. + +When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was +calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came +through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away. + +“This is Slagle speaking …” + +“Yes?” The name was unfamiliar. + +“Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?” + +“There haven’t been any wires.” + +“Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when +he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New +York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know +about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns—” + +“Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. +Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.” + +There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an +exclamation … then a quick squawk as the connection was broken. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz +arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was +leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came. + +It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, +bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His +eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and +umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse +grey beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on +the point of collapse, so I took him into the music-room and made him +sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and +the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand. + +“I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the +Chicago newspaper. I started right away.” + +“I didn’t know how to reach you.” + +His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room. + +“It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.” + +“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him. + +“I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.—” + +“Carraway.” + +“Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” + +I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him +there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into +the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly +away. + +After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth +ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and +unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the +quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the +first time and saw the height and splendour of the hall and the great +rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be +mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom upstairs; while he +took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been +deferred until he came. + +“I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby—” + +“Gatz is my name.” + +“—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.” + +He shook his head. + +“Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in +the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?” + +“We were close friends.” + +“He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, +but he had a lot of brain power here.” + +He touched his head impressively, and I nodded. + +“If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. +Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.” + +“That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably. + +He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the +bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep. + +That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to +know who I was before he would give his name. + +“This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. + +“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” + +I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at +Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a +sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They +were hard to find. + +“The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. +I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” + +“Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see +anybody, but if I do.” + +His tone made me suspicious. + +“Of course you’ll be there yourself.” + +“Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” + +“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” + +“Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with +some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with +them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of +course I’ll do my best to get away.” + +I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he +went on nervously: + +“What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if +it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, +they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My +address is care of B. F.—” + +I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. + +After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I +telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was +my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at +Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known +better than to call him. + +The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer +Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I +pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The +Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone +inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an +argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess +appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile +eyes. + +“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” + +The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to +whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. + +“Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” + +“I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” + +At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” +from the other side of the door. + +“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him +when he gets back.” + +“But I know he’s there.” + +She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up +and down her hips. + +“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she +scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, +he’s in Chicago.” + +I mentioned Gatsby. + +“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your +name?” + +She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the +doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking +in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered +me a cigar. + +“My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major +just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. +He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he +couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he +came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a +job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some +lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food +in half an hour.” + +“Did you start him in business?” I inquired. + +“Start him! I made him.” + +“Oh.” + +“I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right +away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told +me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join +the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did +some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like +that in everything”—he held up two bulbous fingers—“always together.” + +I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series +transaction in 1919. + +“Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, +so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” + +“I’d like to come.” + +“Well, come then.” + +The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head +his eyes filled with tears. + +“I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. + +“There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” + +“When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any +way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend +of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may +think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” + +I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, +so I stood up. + +“Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. + +For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he +only nodded and shook my hand. + +“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and +not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let +everything alone.” + +When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West +Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found +Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his +son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he +had something to show me. + +“Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling +fingers. “Look there.” + +It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty +with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look +there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so +often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. + +“Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up +well.” + +“Very well. Had you seen him lately?” + +“He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in +now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see +now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of +him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” + +He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another +minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and +pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong +Cassidy. + +“Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows +you.” + +He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On +the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September +12, 1906. And underneath: + + Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. + Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” + Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” + Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. + Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” + Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” + Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” + + General Resolves + + * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] + + * No more smokeing or chewing. + + * Bath every other day + + * Read one improving book or magazine per week + + * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week + + * Be better to parents + +“I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just +shows you, don’t it?” + +“It just shows you.” + +“Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this +or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He +was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat +him for it.” + +He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then +looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the +list for my own use. + +A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and +I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did +Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and +stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he +spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced +several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait +for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery +and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, +horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the +limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman +from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we +started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then +the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I +looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found +marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months +before. + +I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the +funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and +he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled +from Gatsby’s grave. + +I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already +too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that +Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur +“Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed +man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. + +We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke +to me by the gate. + +“I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. + +“Neither could anybody else.” + +“Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the +hundreds.” + +He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. + +“The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school +and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than +Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a +December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into +their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember +the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the +chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught +sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you +going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long +green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky +yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking +cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. + +When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, +began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and +the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild +brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we +walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware +of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we +melted indistinguishably into it again. + +That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede +towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street +lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly +wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a +little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent +from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are +still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this +has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and +Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some +deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. + +Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware +of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the +Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the +children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of +distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic +dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at +once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging +sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress +suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a +drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over +the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a +house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one +cares. + +After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted +beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle +leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the +line I decided to come back home. + +There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant +thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to +leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent +sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and +around what had happened to us together, and what had happened +afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big +chair. + +She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like +a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the +colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the +fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without +comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though +there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I +pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t +making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up +to say goodbye. + +“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw +me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it +was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” + +We shook hands. + +“Oh, and do you remember”—she added—“a conversation we had once about +driving a car?” + +“Why—not exactly.” + +“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? +Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me +to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, +straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” + +“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and +call it honour.” + +She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously +sorry, I turned away. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead +of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a +little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving +sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as +I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into +the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, +holding out his hand. + +“What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” + +“Yes. You know what I think of you.” + +“You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know +what’s the matter with you.” + +“Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” + +He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about +those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after +me and grabbed my arm. + +“I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were +getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in +he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if +I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his +pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. +“What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw +dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough +one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even +stopped his car.” + +There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it +wasn’t true. + +“And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when +I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits +sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By +God it was awful—” + +I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done +was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and +confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up +things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their +vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let +other people clean up the mess they had made … + +I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as +though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery +store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff +buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + +Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had +grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never +took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and +pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to +East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story +about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when +I got off the train. + +I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, +dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still +hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, +and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a +material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I +didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away +at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over. + +On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, +I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once +more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a +piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, +drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the +beach and sprawled out on the sand. + +Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any +lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the +Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to +melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that +flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new +world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s +house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all +human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his +breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic +contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the +last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for +wonder. + +And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of +Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of +Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream +must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He +did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that +vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic +rolled on under the night. + +Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by +year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no +matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further … And +one fine morning— + +So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into +the past. + + + + *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT GATSBY *** + + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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