The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?”

  “Who?” cried Jo, staring.

  “Mr. Brooke; I call him ‘John’ now; we fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.”

  “Oh, dear! I know you’ll take his part; he’s been good to father, and you won’t send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! to go petting pa and truckling to you, just to wheedle you into liking him;” and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.

  “My dear, don’t get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence’s request, and was so devoted to poor father, that we couldn’t help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her; but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg’s engaging herself so young.”

  “Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing; I felt it; and now it’s worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family.”

  This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said, gravely, “Jo, I confide in you, and don’t wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him.”

  “She’ll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She’s got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and don’t think John an ugly name, and she’ll go and fall in love, and there’s an end of peace and fun, and cosy times, together. I see it all! they’ll go lovering round the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow,—carry her off and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, deary me! why weren’t we all boys? then there wouldn’t be any bother!”

  Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief.

  “You don’t like it, mother? I’m glad of it; let’s send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be jolly together as we always have been.”

  “I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen,3 and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her.”

  “Hadn’t you rather have her marry a rich man?” asked Jo, as her mother’s voice faltered a little over the last words.

  “Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt, and make Meg comfortable. I’m not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures; I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man’s heart, and that is better than a fortune.”

  “I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I’m disappointed about Meg, for I’d planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn’t it be nice?” asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face.

  “He is younger than she, you know,” began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,—

  “Oh, that don’t matter; he’s old for his age, and tall; and can be quite grown-up in his manners, if he likes. Then he’s rich, and generous, and good, and loves us all; and I say it’s a pity my plan is spoilt.”

  “I’m afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock,4 just now, for any one to depend on. Don’t make plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can’t meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get ‘romantic rubbish,’ as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship.”

  “Well, I won’t; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross, and getting snarled up, when a pull here, and a snip there, would straighten it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,—more’s the pity!”5

  “What’s that about flat-irons and cats?” asked Meg, as she crept into the room, with the finished letter in her hand.

  “Only one of my stupid speeches. I’m going to bed; come on, Peggy,” said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.

  “Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John,” said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it back.

  “Do you call him ‘John’?” asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother’s.

  “Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,” replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.

  “I’m glad of that; he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,” was Meg’s quiet answer.

  The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to.”

  1. dutiful young storks. An old wives’ tale maintains that storks feed their elderly parents, a legend that has made them symbols of filial piety and gratitude.

  2. “wore her bracelet, to remind me of something.” Amy almost certainly refers to “The Bracelet of Memory,” a tale by Mrs. Edgeworth, in which the heroine, Rosamond, is given a talismanic bracelet that pricks her to remind her of anything she wishes to remember. The story is part of a larger collection called Rosamond (1801), which Mrs. Alcott read aloud to her daughters while they resided at Fruitlands in 1843.

  3. “for Meg is only seventeen.” When she became engaged to John Pratt, Anna Alcott was twenty-seven, above the average at the time for a first betrothal, rather than below it.

  4. “too much of a weathercock.” Weathercocks, placed at the tops of buildings, were used to show the direction of the wind. In Marmee’s view, Laurie, too, changes directions as quickly as the wind and needs to become more steadfast before he should consider marriage.

  5. “more’s the pity!” Jo reiterates her fear of adulthood.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace.

  JO’S face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask.1 She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bid her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, La
urie was her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.

  She was quite right; for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery, than he set himself to finding it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn’t care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor’s confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.

  Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in preparations for her father’s return; but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother’s inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo’s she silenced by begging to be let alone.

  “She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she’s going very fast. She’s got most of the symptoms, is twittery and cross, don’t eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song about ‘the silver-voiced brook,’2 and once she said ‘John,’ as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?” said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.

  “Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father’s coming will settle everything,” replied her mother.

  “Here’s a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine,” said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post-office.

  Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened face.

  “My child, what is it?” cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.

  “It’s all a mistake—he didn’t send it—oh, Jo, how could you do it?” and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.

  “Me! I’ve done nothing! What’s she talking about?” cried Jo, bewildered.

  Meg’s mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying, reproachfully,—

  “You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean,3 and cruel to us both?”

  Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.

  “MY DEAREST MARGARET,—

  “I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to

  “Your devoted

  “JOHN.”

  “Oh, the little villain! that’s the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to mother. I’ll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over to beg pardon,” cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore,—

  “Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.”

  “On my word, mother, I haven’t! I never saw that note before, and don’t know anything about it, as true as I live!” said Jo, so earnestly, that they believed her. “If I had taken a part in it I’d have done it better than this,4 and have written a sensible note. I should think you’d have known Mr. Brooke wouldn’t write such stuff as that,” she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.

  “It’s like his writing,” faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.

  “Oh, Meg, you didn’t answer it?” cried Mrs. March, quickly.

  “Yes, I did!” and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.

  “Here’s a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and be lectured. I can’t rest till I get hold of him;” and Jo made for the door again.

  “Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,” commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

  “I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn’t look as if he knew anything about it,” began Meg, without looking up. “I was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I’m so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, mother, I’m paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in the face again.”

  “What did you say to him?” asked Mrs. March.

  “I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn’t wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while.”

  Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh,—

  “You are almost equal to Caroline Percy,5 who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?”

  “He writes in a different way entirely; telling me that he never sent any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It’s very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!”

  Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely, said, decidedly, “I don’t believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because I wouldn’t tell him my secret.”

  “Don’t have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should have done,” said Meg, warningly.

  “Bless you, child! mother told me.”

  “That will do, Jo. I’ll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once.”

  Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke’s real feelings. “Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?”

  “I’ve been so scared and worried, I don’t want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while,—perhaps never,” answered Meg, petulantly. “If John doesn’t know anything about this nonsense, don’t tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won’t be deceived and plagued, and made a fool of,—it’s a shame!”

  Seeing that Meg’s usually gentle temper was roused, and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie’s step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn’t come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March’s face, and stood twirling his hat with a guilty air, which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.

  When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such a penitent face, that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.

  “I’ll never tell him to my dying day,—wild horses shan’t drag it out of me; so you’l
l forgive me, Meg, and I’ll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am,” he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

  “I’ll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn’t think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie,” replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

  “It was altogether abominable, and I don’t deserve to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won’t you?” and Laurie folded his hands together, with such an imploring gesture, and rolled up his eyes in such a meekly repentant way, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March’s grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.

  Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word.

  As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and, when Meg and her mother went up stairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.

  “Is Mr. Laurence in?” asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down stairs.

  “Yes, miss; but I don’t believe he’s seeable just yet.”

  “Why not; is he ill?”

  “La, no, miss! but he’s had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn’t go nigh him.”