Part 49

At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders. “Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn’t it?” “Which did she choose?” asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. “None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!” “Did she ride the horse?” “Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party.” “Well, I call that plucky!” and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, “Oh, Amy painted it. You can’t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It’s a great comfort to have an artistic sister.” “Isn’t that an original idea?” cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. “That’s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There’s nothing the child can’t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie’s party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,” added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister’s accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her. “We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,” observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her ‘works’ always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?” As Miss Lamb had ‘enjoyed’ the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. “Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don’t dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don’t think I shall have the heart to send you away.” Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester’s gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. “Didn’t I do well?” asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away. “Nothing could have been worse,” was Amy’s crushing reply. “What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?” “Why, it’s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it’s no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do.” “You needn’t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven’t a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,” said Amy despairingly. Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. “How shall I behave here?” she asked, as they approached the third mansion. “Just as you please. I wash my hands of you,” was Amy’s short answer. “Then I’ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we’ll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution,” returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that “Tom Brown was a brick,” regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart’s content. Mr. Tudor’s uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us—that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie’s pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy’s cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo’s best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, “It was such fun to hear about Laurie’s larks.” “Capital boys, aren’t they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that.” said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol. “Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?” asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo’s dilapidated appearance. “Don’t like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn’t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don’t consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone.” “You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right,” said Amy reprovingly. “No, it wouldn’t,” returned Jo, “I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather’s uncle’s nephew’s niece was a third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels.” “It’s no use trying to argue with you,” began Amy. “Not the least, my dear,” interrupted Jo, “so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I’m deeply grateful.” The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged. “Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it’s really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross.” “Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It’s a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don’t believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet.” “What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. “I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy.” Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, “Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you’d remember that, and practice it, you’d be better liked than I am, because there is more of you.” “I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I’m willing to own that you are right, only it’s easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don’t feel like it. It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn’t it?” “It’s a greater not to be able to hide them. I don’t mind saying that I don’t approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I’m not called upon to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is.” “But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I’ve had Teddie to manage. But there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can.” “Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can’t be taken as a sample of other boys,” said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the ‘remarkable boy’ if he had heard it. “If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don’t approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn’t have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical.” “So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That’s a nice sort of morality.” “I can’t argue about it, I only know that it’s the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don’t like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one.” “I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We can’t agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think.”