<p class="h2"><SPAN name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></SPAN>XXVIII.</p>
<p class="h2a">DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="smcap">Like</span> most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with
the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find
home a paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare
sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She
brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she
could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was
not a tranquil one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to
please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many
cares. She was too tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic
after a course of dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded
plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they
went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten
to make him sew them on himself, and then see if <i>his</i> work would
stand impatient tugs and clumsy fingers any better than hers.</p>
<p class="indent">They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't
live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty diminished, though
she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee-pot; nor did Meg
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 335]</span>
miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband
followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, "Shall I send home veal
or mutton for dinner, darling?" The little house ceased to be a glorified
bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt
that it was a change for the better. At first they played keep-house,
and frolicked over it like children; then John took steadily to business,
feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders;
and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to
work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.</p>
<p class="indent">While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited
in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would
be privately despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be
concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little
Hummels. An evening with John over the account-books usually
produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit
would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of
bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul,
although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden
mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions
what young couples seldom get on long without,—a family jar.</p>
<p class="indent">Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.
John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and an
extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were to
be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife" was
equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved
that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a
most pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful
little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the
currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms
bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look
in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts
about her success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do it hundreds of
times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 336]</span>
fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top
shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking,
boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best; she
asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she racked her brain to remember
what Hannah did that she had left undone; she reboiled, resugared,
and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't "<i>jell</i>."</p>
<p class="indent">She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a hand,
but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any one
with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed
over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous
one; but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get
on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March
had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory
sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down
in her topsy-turvy kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her
voice and wept.</p>
<p class="indent">Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,—</p>
<p class="indent">"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever
he likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you
please, and be sure of a welcome from me."</p>
<p class="indent">How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride
to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior
wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it
never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity
to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale
of tears; there is an inevitability about such things which we can only
wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.</p>
<p class="indent">If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have
been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in
the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating
himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning,
feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in
pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when
his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 337]</span>
to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and
husband.</p>
<p class="indent">It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he
reached the Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably
open; now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still
adorned the steps. The parlor-windows were closed and curtained,
no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting
little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy
welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul
appeared, but a sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the currant-bushes.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott,
while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and
solitude.</p>
<p class="indent">Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar,
and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He
paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he
could both see and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect
mightily.</p>
<p class="indent">In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly
was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third
was burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was
calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly
liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head,
sat sobbing dismally.</p>
<p class="indent">"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.</p>
<p class="indent">"O John, I <i>am</i> so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've
been at it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I <i>shall</i>
die!" and the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving
him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore
had been baptized at the same time as the floor.</p>
<p class="indent">"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?"
asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap,
which was all askew.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 338]</span>
"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.</p>
<p class="indent">"Tell me quick, then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than
that. Out with it, love."</p>
<p class="indent">"The—the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"</p>
<p class="indent">John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and
the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal,
which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.</p>
<p class="indent">"Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more
about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake
don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and—"</p>
<p class="indent">John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands
with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of
mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay,—</p>
<p class="indent">"A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how
<i>could</i> you do such a thing?"</p>
<p class="indent">"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it
can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an
anxious eye.</p>
<p class="indent">"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you
ought to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly;
for even turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.</p>
<p class="indent">"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send
word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking
leave, when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried
it before, and hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an
aggrieved air.</p>
<p class="indent">"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him,
and there isn't any dinner."</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home,
and the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.</p>
<p class="indent">"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's.
I'm sorry, but I was <i>so</i> busy;" and Meg's tears began again.</p>
<p class="indent">John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's
work, to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic
house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 339]</span>
repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and the
little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll
pull through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just
exert yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both
as hungry as hunters, so we sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold
meat, and bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."</p>
<p class="indent">He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his
fate. Meg thought it was <i>too</i> cruel to hint about her sad failure, and
the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.</p>
<p class="indent">"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too
used up to 'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a
bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything
of the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and
tell him I'm away, sick, dead,—anything. I won't see him, and you
two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like: you won't
have anything else here;" and having delivered her defiance all in one
breath, Meg cast away her pinafore, and precipitately left the field to
bemoan herself in her own room.</p>
<p class="indent">What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but
Mr. Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended,
after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous
lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had
eaten "a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw
away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."</p>
<p class="indent">Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her
own short-comings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing
up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come
and be forgiven.</p>
<p class="indent">Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that
light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his
little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that
his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come
again. But John was angry, though he did not show it; he felt that
Meg had got him into a scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 340]</span>
need. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time,
with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame
up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or
pitied. No, by George, it wasn't! and Meg must know it." He
had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over,
and he strolled home, after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over
him. "Poor little thing! it was hard upon her when she tried so
heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was
young. I must be patient and teach her." He hoped she had not
gone home—he hated gossip and interference. For a minute he
was ruffled again at the mere thought of it; and then the fear that
Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a
quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and
show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.</p>
<p class="indent">Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show
<i>him</i> his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and
be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course,
she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began
to hum quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure
in her best parlor.</p>
<p class="indent">John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but,
feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,
only came leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the singularly
relevant remark,—</p>
<p class="indent">"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.</p>
<p class="indent">A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr.
Brooke, and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished.
John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped
himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window,
and sewed as if new rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries
of life. Neither spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm,"
and both felt desperately uncomfortable.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b131.png" id="b131.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b131.png" width-obs="511" height-obs="400" alt="Both felt desperately uncomfortable" title="Both felt desperately uncomfortable" /></div>
<p class="indent">"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does
need infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word
"mother" suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and
received with unbelieving protests.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 341]</span>
"John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to
see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided,
but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently.
He is very accurate, and particular about the truth—a good
trait, though you call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look or
word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support
you need. He has a temper, not like ours,—one flash, and then
all over,—but the white, still anger, that is seldom stirred, but once
kindled, is hard to quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake
this anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping
his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you
both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and
hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."</p>
<p class="indent">These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her own
hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them,
her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 342]</span>
home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at
him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down
her work and got up, thinking, "I <i>will</i> be the first to say, 'Forgive
me,'" but he did not seem to hear her; she went very slowly across
the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he
did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't
do it; then came the thought, "This is the beginning, I'll do my
part, and have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down,
she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled
it; the penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John
had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly,—</p>
<p class="indent">"It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me,
dear, I never will again!"</p>
<p class="indent">But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg,
both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for family
peace was preserved in that little family jar.</p>
<p class="indent">After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a
happy fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood
all the way home.</p>
<p class="indent">In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie
Moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of
gossip at the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in
and spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull
weather Meg often felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent
till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it
naturally fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping
with her friend. Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such,
and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind,
and often offered her the coveted trifles; but Meg declined them,
knowing that John wouldn't like it; and then this foolish little woman
went and did what John disliked infinitely worse.</p>
<p class="indent">She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he
trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 343]</span>
value more,—his money. She knew where it was, was free to take
what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of
every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a
poor man's wife. Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact,
kept her little account-books neatly, and showed them to him
monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's
paradise, and tempted her, like many a modern Eve, not with apples,
but with dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor;
it irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then
she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie
needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it,
for the pretty things were seldom necessaries; but then they cost so
little, it wasn't worth worrying about; so the trifles increased unconsciously,
and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive
looker-on.</p>
<p class="indent">But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she
cast up her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather
scared her. John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the
next month he was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly
settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had
done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie
had been buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one,—just a handsome
light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin
things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually
gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New
Year; that was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk
going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take
it. John always said what was his was hers; but would he think it
right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another
five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question.
Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money, and
with the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her strength.
In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds,
and said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take
it;" and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and she
had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away,
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 344]</span>
feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after
her.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b132.png" id="b132.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b132.png" width-obs="560" height-obs="400" alt="A bargain, I assure you, ma'am" title="A bargain, I assure you, ma'am" /></div>
<p class="indent">When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now, didn't
become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed stamped
like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it haunted
her, not delightfully, as a new dress should, but dreadfully, like the
ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books
that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life,
she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if
they could be stern; and though he was unusually merry, she fancied
he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The
house-bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised
her, and was undoing the old pocket-book which they called the
"bank," when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his
hand, saying nervously,—</p>
<p class="indent">"You haven't seen my private expense book yet."</p>
<p class="indent">John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so,
and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women
<span class="pagenum">[Pg 345]</span>
wanted, and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the
meaning of a "hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed
of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly
be a bonnet, and cost five or six dollars. That night he looked as if
he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be
horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly
proud of his prudent wife.</p>
<p class="indent">The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him.
Meg got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles
out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic
increasing with every word,—</p>
<p class="indent">"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have things,
you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my New-Year's
money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd done it,
for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."</p>
<p class="indent">John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly,
"Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you <i>have</i> got a
pair of killing boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't
mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are
good ones."</p>
<p class="indent">That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen
on it as he spoke. "Oh, what <i>will</i> he say when he comes to that
awful fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.</p>
<p class="indent">"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness
of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"</p>
<p class="indent">That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at
her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to
meet and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page
and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have
been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her
with that added. For a minute the room was very still; then John
said slowly,—but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no
displeasure,—</p>
<p class="indent">"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows
and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 346]</span>
"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden recollection
of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.</p>
<p class="indent">"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small
woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's
when she gets it on," said John dryly.</p>
<p class="indent">"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to
waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count
up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and
pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and
I'm tired of being poor."</p>
<p class="indent">The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear
them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied
himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her
tongue out the minute she had said it, for John pushed the books
away, and got up, saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was
afraid of this; I do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even
shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words.
She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "O
John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so
wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how
could I say it!"</p>
<p class="indent">He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach;
but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would
not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again.
She had promised to love him for better for worse; and then she, his
wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings
recklessly. It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John went
on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that
he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry
herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick; and the
discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new great-coat
reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold.
He had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the
change, "I can't afford it, my dear."</p>
<p class="indent">Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall,
with her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her heart would
break.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 347]</span>
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of
him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and
taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural
longings and failures of those he loved.</p>
<p class="indent">Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured
Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her
a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the
great-coat, and, when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how
he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made,
how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.
John came home early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat
was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at
night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and
at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience,—the deepest
and tenderest of a woman's life.</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one Saturday,
with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals;
for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover
in the other.</p>
<p class="indent">"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't
you tell me before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.</p>
<p class="indent">"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a
worshipin'; we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into
the parlor, and I'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved
reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.</p>
<p class="indent">Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth
upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled,
and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of
some sort.</p>
<p class="indent">"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind
him with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather not. I
shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."</p>
<p class="indent">"Then you sha'n't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if
to go.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 348]</span>
"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages;" and,
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was
put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March,
Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find
himself invested with two babies instead of one.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <SPAN name="b133.png" id="b133.png"></SPAN> <ANTIMG src="images/b133.png" width-obs="470" height-obs="400" alt="Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms" title="Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms" /></div>
<p class="indent">No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll
enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the
unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay
that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.</p>
<p class="indent">"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning to
the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he
added, "Take 'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall
drop 'em."</p>
<p class="indent">John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on
each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending,
while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.</p>
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 349]</span>
"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you
told, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself I've
done it," said Jo, when she got her breath.</p>
<p class="indent">"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they
boys? What are you going to name them? Let's have another look.
Hold me up, Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned
Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.</p>
<p class="indent">"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming
upon the little, red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.</p>
<p class="indent">"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and
Laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.</p>
<p class="indent">"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.</p>
<p class="indent">"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual timidity
in such matters.</p>
<p class="indent">"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.</p>
<p class="indent">Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each
little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.</p>
<p class="indent">"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him
kick; he hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young
Brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie,
delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly
about.</p>
<p class="indent">"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after
mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have
two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a
better name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.</p>
<p class="indent">"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said
Laurie.</p>
<p class="indent">"Daisy and Demi,—just the thing! I <i>knew</i> Teddy would do it,"
cried Jo, clapping her hands.</p>
<p class="indent">Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were
"Daisy" and "Demi" to the end of the chapter.</p>
<hr class="hr2" />
<p class="indent"><span class="pagenum">[Pg 350]</span></p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />