The June roses over the porch were
awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing
with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like
friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite
flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as
they swung in the wind, whispering to one another
what they had seen, for some peeped in at the dining
room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed
up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed
the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came
and went on various errands in garden, porch, and
hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to
the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty
and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved
and tended them so long.
Meg looked very like a rose herself,
for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul
seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it
fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty.
Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have.
“I don’t want a fashionable wedding,
but only those about me whom I love, and to them I
wish to look and be my familiar self.”
So she made her wedding gown herself,
sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances
of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her
pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the
lilies of the valley, which ‘her John’
liked best of all the flowers that grew.
“You do look just like our own
dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should
hug you if it wouldn’t crumple your dress,”
cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was
done.
“Then I am satisfied.
But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don’t
mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of
this sort put into it today,” and Meg opened
her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with
April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love
had not changed the old.
“Now I’m going to tie
John’s cravat for him, and then to stay a few
minutes with Father quietly in the study,” and
Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and
then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious
that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there
was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the
flight of the first bird from the nest.
As the younger girls stand together,
giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it
may be a good time to tell of a few changes which
three years have wrought in their appearance, for all
are looking their best just now.
Jo’s angles are much softened,
she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not
grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick
coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the
tall figure. There is a fresh color in her brown
cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle
words fall from her sharp tongue today.
Beth has grown slender, pale, and
more quiet than ever. The beautiful, kind eyes
are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens
one, although it is not sad itself. It is the
shadow of pain which touches the young face with such
pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and always
speaks hopefully of ‘being better soon’.
Amy is with truth considered ‘the
flower of the family’, for at sixteen she has
the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful,
but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace.
One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and
motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop
of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive
to many as beauty itself. Amy’s nose still
afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian, so
did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided
chin. These offending features gave character
to her whole face, but she never could see it, and
consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion,
keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant
than ever.
All three wore suits of thin silver
gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush
roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just
what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing
a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful
eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood.
There were to be no ceremonious performances,
everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible,
so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to
see the bride come running to welcome and lead her
in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland
that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the
paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance
and a wine bottle under each arm.
“Upon my word, here’s
a state of things!” cried the old lady, taking
the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the
folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle.
“You oughtn’t to be seen till the last
minute, child.”
“I’m not a show, Aunty,
and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize
my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I’m
too happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and
I’m going to have my little wedding just as
I like it. John, dear, here’s your hammer.”
And away went Meg to help ‘that man’
in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didn’t even say,
“Thank you,” but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind
the folding door, with a look that made Aunt March
whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew
in her sharp old eyes.
A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie,
accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, “Jupiter
Ammon! Jo’s upset the cake again!”
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when
a flock of cousins arrived, and ‘the party came
in’, as Beth used to say when a child.
“Don’t let that young
giant come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes,”
whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled
and Laurie’s black head towered above the rest.
“He has promised to be very
good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he
likes,” returned Amy, and gliding away to warn
Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused
him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly
distracted her.
There was no bridal procession, but
a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and
the young couple took their places under the green
arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if
loath to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke
more than once, which only seemed to make the service
more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom’s
hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies.
But Meg looked straight up in her husband’s
eyes, and said, “I will!” with such tender
trust in her own face and voice that her mother’s
heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.
Jo did not cry, though she was very
near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration
by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly
at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion
in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face
hidden on her mother’s shoulder, but Amy stood
like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower
in her hair.
It wasn’t at all the thing,
I’m afraid, but the minute she was fairly married,
Meg cried, “The first kiss for Marmee!”
and turning, gave it with her heart on her lips.
During the next fifteen minutes she looked more like
a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of
their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence
to old Hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully
and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying
with a sob and a chuckle, “Bless you, deary,
a hundred times! The cake ain’t hurt a
mite, and everything looks lovely.”
Everybody cleared up after that, and
said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just
as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
There was no display of gifts, for they were already
in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast,
but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with
flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged
and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and
coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which
the three Hebes carried round. No one said
anything, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the
bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in
his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.
“Has Jo smashed all the bottles
by accident?” he whispered, “or am I merely
laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about
loose this morning?”
“No, your grandfather kindly
offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent
some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched
the rest to the Soldier’s Home. You know
he thinks that wine should be used only in illness,
and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters
will ever offer it to any young man under her roof.”
Meg spoke seriously and expected to
see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for
after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous
way, “I like that! For I’ve seen
enough harm done to wish other women would think as
you do.”
“You are not made wise by experience,
I hope?” and there was an anxious accent in
Meg’s voice.
“No. I give you my word
for it. Don’t think too well of me, either,
this is not one of my temptations. Being brought
up where wine is as common as water and almost as
harmless, I don’t care for it, but when a pretty
girl offers it, one doesn’t like to refuse, you
see.”
“But you will, for the sake
of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie,
promise, and give me one more reason to call this the
happiest day of my life.”
A demand so sudden and so serious
made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule
is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg
knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it
at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a
woman may for her friend’s good. She did
not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made
very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said,
“No one can refuse me anything today.”
Laurie certainly could not, and with
an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily,
“I promise, Mrs. Brooke!”
“I thank you, very, very much.”
“And I drink ‘long life
to your resolution’, Teddy,” cried Jo,
baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved
her glass and beamed approvingly upon him.
So the toast was drunk, the pledge
made and loyally kept in spite of many temptations,
for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy
moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked
them all his life.
After lunch, people strolled about,
by twos and threes, through the house and garden,
enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg
and John happened to be standing together in the middle
of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an
inspiration which put the finishing touch to this
unfashionable wedding.
“All the married people take
hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife,
as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters
prance in couples outside!” cried Laurie, promenading
down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit
and skill that everyone else followed their example
without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and
Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even
Sallie Moffat, after a moment’s hesitation,
threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into
the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence
and Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman
chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked
her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to
join hands with the rest and dance about the bridal
pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like
butterflies on a midsummer day.
Want of breath brought the impromptu
ball to a close, and then people began to go.
“I wish you well, my dear, I
heartily wish you well, but I think you’ll be
sorry for it,” said Aunt March to Meg, adding
to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage,
“You’ve got a treasure, young man, see
that you deserve it.”
“That is the prettiest wedding
I’ve been to for an age, Ned, and I don’t
see why, for there wasn’t a bit of style about
it,” observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as
they drove away.
“Laurie, my lad, if you ever
want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of
those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly
satisfied,” said Mr. Laurence, settling himself
in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of
the morning.
“I’ll do my best to gratify
you, Sir,” was Laurie’s unusually dutiful
reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put
in his buttonhole.
The little house was not far away,
and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet
walk with John from the old home to the new. When
she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in
her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white,
they all gathered about her to say ‘good-by’,
as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand
tour.
“Don’t feel that I am
separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love you
any the less for loving John so much,” she said,
clinging to her mother, with full eyes for a moment.
“I shall come every day, Father, and expect
to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am
married. Beth is going to be with me a great
deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then
to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank
you all for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by!”
They stood watching her, with faces
full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked
away, leaning on her husband’s arm, with her
hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening
her happy face and so Meg’s married
life began.