Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
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 tarlatan."
"It will look nicely 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-box; 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, don't it? the violet silk would be so nice; oh,
dear!"
"Never mind; you've got the tarlatan 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 don't sweep enough,
but it will have to do. My blue house-dress 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 don't look like Sallie's; I didn't like
to say anything, but I was dreadfully disappointed in
my umbrella. I told mother black, with a white
handle, but she forgot, and bought a green one, with
an ugly 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
spandy 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
night-caps; 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, don't it? There, now, the trays are ready,
and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall
leave for mother," said Meg, cheering up, as she
glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many-times
pressed and mended white tarlatan, 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 had begged so hard, and
Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a
little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of
hard 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 theatres 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. Every one petted her; and
"Daisy," 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 tarleton,
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 do 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 and chattered, prinked, 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 ferns 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 are 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; every one 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 a 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 laid 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 mamma, 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 tarlatan is all she has got. She may tear
it to-night, and that will be a good excuse for offering
a decent one."
"We'll see; I shall ask that Laurence, as a
compliment to her, and we'll have fun about it afterward."
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 her
plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy
tarlatan," 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 spoilt 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? 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 any one 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 towards 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,
For several minutes, she stood like the jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes.—Page 135.
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 ear-rings, 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 blue silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver 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 ear-rings 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 the 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. Put your silver butterfly in the middle of that white barbe, 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.
"I'm afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff, and half-dressed," said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the young ladies to appear at once.
"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 sofas, and criticised 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 ear-rings 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, for 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 about 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 spoilt her
entirely; she's nothing but a doll, to-night."
"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 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 don'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
practised 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 to-night. 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 nice, 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 don'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 supper-time, 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 to-morrow, if you
drink much of that. I wouldn't, Meg; your mother
don'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, to-night; I'm 'a doll,' who does all
sorts of crazy things. To-morrow I shall put away
my 'fuss and feathers,' and be desperately good again,"
she answered, with an affected little laugh.
"Wish to-morrow 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 à la mort," replied Laurie, with a
melodramatic flourish, as he went away.
This little bit of by-play 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 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 rigged 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,
illbred, 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 trust and hope 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.