第 九 章 · MEG GOES TO VANITY FAIR

. 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.