Part 1, CHAPTER NINETEENAMY’S WILL

I don’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 in 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. Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children’s little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amy’s soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.

Hannah had ‘dished up’ an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, 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. Not a speck escaped Aunt March’s eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed, the lap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn’t she enjoy it?

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 everyone 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.

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 a 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.

After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up 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. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests, for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy’s chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover’s diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, Uncle March’s big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box all by itself lay Aunt March’s wedding ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of them all.

“On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,” 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.

“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.

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.

“They are very pretty, but I think you’re rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,” said Mrs.

“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.” It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou.”

“Do you mean Aunt March?” asked her mother, laughing. I wish I could.”

“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. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble.”

“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.

“Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best.

That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler’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. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.

“What is it, deary?” asked Mrs.

“I want to tell you something, Mother.” I know it, Madame confides in me. I witnessed her will, and it is to be so,” whispered Esther smiling.

“About Meg?” But I wish she’d let us have them now. Procrastination is not agreeable,” observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.

“How quickly 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. That 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 about it, till Teddy told me that 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?” Esther had given her a rosary of black beads with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.

“Do you think Meg cares for him?” asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look. But, Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady’s jewels.

“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 does not 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 doesn’t mind me as he ought.” Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! Ha!”

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

“Who?” cried Jo, staring.

“Mr. Brooke. I call him ‘John’ now.

“Oh, dear!

“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.

“Of course not. It would be idiotic!

This odd arrangement made Mrs.

“She’ll see 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 anyone looks sentimentlly at her.

Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible John.

“You don’t like it, Mother?

“I did wrong to sigh, Jo.

“Hadn’t you rather have her marry a rich man?” asked Jo, as her mother’s voice faltered a little over the last words. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.

“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 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.

“He is younger than she, you know,” began Mrs.

“Only a little, 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 spoiled.”

“I’m afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don’t make plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends.

“Well, I won’t, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up.

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

“Only one of my stupid speeches.

“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. Anni Domino 1861.

“Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,” replied Mrs.

“I’m glad of that, he is so lonely.

The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs.

The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.

“What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth’s giving away her things?” asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.

She explained and then asked anxiously, “What about Beth?”

“I’m sorry I spoke, but as I did, I’ll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will.”

Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy’s face was full of trouble, but she only said, “Don’t people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?”

“Yes, ‘codicils’, they call them.”

“Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will spoil my looks.”

Laurie added it, smiling at Amy’s last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, “Is there really any danger about Beth?”

“I’m afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don’t cry, dear.” And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.

When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.