Chương Chương 19 · AMY’S WILL

. 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.