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 French woman 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 up stairs 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 courtesies, 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 of 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 book-case; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the book-case, 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 paper out of her pocket. “I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that 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, do 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 breast-pin, 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 burnt 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 marshay4 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, specially 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 band-box she wanted and all the patch work 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 every one, 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 1861.5
“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 any one 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 standish6 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 bird 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 postscrips 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.
1. Amy’s Will. Since the previous chapter alludes to December 1 and Amy’s will is dated in November, Chapter XIX mildly disrupts the chronological flow of the novel. Though one may cite reasons for this choice on Alcott’s part, it may also reflect the haste of the novel’s composition, on which Alcott sometimes progressed at the rate of a chapter a day.
2. never asked to change her religion. Although Catholic immigrants often met with a wary and even hostile reception in coming to America before the Civil War, they seldom converted to Protestantism; like Estelle, the overwhelming majority of them valued their faith more highly than the prospect of assimilating into the Protestant mainstream. Conversely, a number of Bronson Alcott’s Transcendentalist friends and acquaintances converted to Catholicism. They notably included editor and essayist Orestes Brownson; Isaac Hecker, who lived at two experimental Transcendent
alist communities, Brook Farm and Fruitlands, before going on to found the Paulist Fathers; and Anna Barker Ward, a bosom friend of both Ralph Waldo Emerson and Margaret Fuller.
3. “Would it be right for me to do so too?” Although a Protestant minister’s daughter, Amy has thus far shown little interest in religion. It is ironic that her association of France with all things worldly and fashionable helps to lead her to a spiritual awareness tinted with French Catholicism. Alcott’s own view of the French appears to soften when she turns away from their supposed material obsessions and looks instead at their religiosity.
4. “paper marshay.” Amy struggles to come up with the French phrase papier-mâché. Literally “chewed paper,” it consists of paper saturated in paste or glue. The paper hardens into shape as the adhesive element dries.
5. “Anni Domino 1861.” Amy has tried to come up with “anno domini,” Latin for “the year of our Lord.” Since the story has now progressed to the second autumn of the Civil War, the date 1861 is incorrect; it should be 1862. There is no way to decide whether this slip was an error made by Alcott or her editor or was intentionally inserted to show Amy’s carelessness.
6. Standish. An inkstand or holder for writing implements.
CHAPTER XX.
Confidential.
IDON’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 into 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 traveller, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks,1 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 every one 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 “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 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 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,” she said, 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.”2
“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 every one loves her, and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn’t feel half 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 I 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 traveller’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 quick 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. Tha
t 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 all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked him about it, and 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.
John Pratt and Anna Alcott fell in love while rehearsing James Robinson Planché’s 1834 vaudeville, “The Loan of a Lover.” Pratt poses here in jaunty theatrical garb. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)
“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 don’t 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 don’t mind me as he ought.”
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