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Chapter 22 Pleasant Meadows Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed.
The invalids improved rapidly and Mr March began to talk of returning early in the new year.
Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day,
Amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first,
And in time with dull sewing which had fallen sadly behind hand.
Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house in her strong arms.
Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for the deer,
Whilst Amy,
A loyal slave of the ring,
Celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.
As Christmas approached,
The usual mysteries began to haunt the house,
And Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies in honour of this unusually merry Christmas.
Laurie was equally impractical and would have had bonfires,
Sky rockets and triumphal arches if he'd had his own way.
After many skirmishes and snubbings,
The ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces,
Which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas day.
Hannah felt in her bones it was going to be unusually fine,
And she proved herself a true prophetess,
For everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success.
To begin with,
Mr March wrote he should soon be with them.
Then Beth felt uncommonly well,
And being dressed in her mother's gift,
A soft crimson merino wrapper,
Was borne in triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie.
The unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name,
For like elves they'd worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise.
Out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden,
Crowned with holly,
Bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand,
A great roll of new music in the other,
A perfect rainbow of an afghan around her chilly shoulders,
And a Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer,
The Jungfrau to Beth.
God bless you,
Dear Queen Beth,
May nothing you dismay,
But health and peace and happiness be yours this Christmas day.
Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
And flowers for her nose,
Here's music for her peony,
An afghan for her toes.
A portrait of Joanna Sea by Raphael No.
2,
Who laboured with great industry to make it fair and true.
Except a ribbon red,
I beg,
For Madame Perra's tail,
And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,
A Mont Blanc in a pail.
Their dearest love my makers laid within the breast of snow,
Excepted and the alpine made from Laurie and from Jo.
How Beth laughed when she saw it,
How Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts,
And what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them.
I'm so full of happiness,
If father were only here I could hold it not one drop more,
Said Beth,
Quite sighing with contentment,
As Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement,
And to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the Jungfrau had sent.
So am I,
Added Jo,
Slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired undine and sintrum.
I'm sure I am,
Echoed Amy,
Poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child,
Which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.
Of course I am,
Cried Meg,
Smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress,
For Mr Lawrence had insisted on giving it.
How can I be otherwise,
Said Mrs Marks gratefully,
As her eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face,
And her hand caressed the brooch made of grey and golden,
Chestnut and dark brown hair,
Which the girls had just fastened on her breast.
Now and then in this workaday world,
Things do happen in a delightful storybook fashion,
And what a comfort that is.
Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more,
The drop came.
Laurie opened the parlour door and popped his head in very quietly.
He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop,
For his face was so full of suppressed excitement,
And his voice so treacherously joyful,
That everyone jumped up,
Though he only said,
In a queer breathless tone,
Here's another Christmas present for the March family.
Before the words were well out of his mouth,
He was whisked away somehow,
And in his place appeared a tall man,
Muffled up to the eyes,
Leaning on the arm of another tall man,
Who tried to say something and couldn't.
Of course,
There was a general stampede,
And for several minutes everyone seemed to lose their wits,
For the strangest things were done and no one said a word.
Mrs March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms.
Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away,
And had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet.
Mr Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake,
As he somewhat incoherently explained,
And Amy,
The dignified,
Stumbled over a stall,
And never stopping to get up,
Hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most touching manner.
Mrs March was the first to recover herself,
And held up her hand with a warning,
Hush,
Remember Beth!
But it was too late.
The study door flew open,
The little red wrapper appeared on the threshold,
Joy put strength into the feeble limbs,
And Beth ran straight into her father's arms.
Never mind what happened after that,
For the full hearts overflowed,
Washing away the bitterness of the past,
And leaving only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic,
But a hearty laugh set everyone straight again,
For Hannah was discovered behind the door sobbing over the fat turkey,
Which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen.
As the laugh subsided,
Mrs March began to thank Mr Brooke for his faithful care of her husband.
At which Mr Brooke suddenly remembered Mr March needed rest,
And seizing Laurie,
He retired.
Then the two invalids were ordered to repose,
Which they did by both sitting in one big armchair and talking hard.
Mr March told how he longed to surprise them,
And how in the fine weather came he'd been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it.
He told them how devoted Brooke had been,
And how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man.
Why Mr March paused a minute just there,
And after a glance at Meg,
Who was violently poking the fire,
And looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows,
I leave you to imagine.
Also why Mrs March gently nodded her head,
And asked rather abruptly if he wouldn't have something to eat.
Jo saw and understood the look.
Then she stalked grimly away to get beef tea,
Muttering to herself,
I hate estimable young men with brown eyes.
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day.
The fat turkey was a sight to behold when Hannah sent him up,
Stuffed,
Browned and decorated.
So was the plum pudding,
Which quite melted in one's mouth.
Likewise the jellies in which Amy revelled like a fly in a honeypot.
Everything turned out well.
Which was a mercy,
Hannah said,
For my mind was that flustered mum,
It's a miracle I didn't roast the pudding,
And stuff the turkey with raisins,
Let alone a boiling of it in a cloth.
Mr Lawrence and his grandson dined with them also,
And Mr Brooke,
At whom Jo glowered darkly,
To Laurie's infinite amusement.
Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table,
In which Beth and her father,
Feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit,
Sat.
They drank healths,
Told stories,
Sang songs,
Reminisced as the old folk say,
And had a thoroughly good time.
A sleigh ride had been planned,
But the girls would not leave their father,
So the guests departed early,
And as twilight gathered the happy family sat together around the fire.
Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have,
Do you remember?
Asked Jo,
Breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation.
Rather a pleasant cheer on the whole,
Said Meg,
Smiling at the fire and congratulating herself on having treated Mr Brooke with dignity.
I think it's been a pretty hard one,
Observed Amy,
Watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.
I'm glad it's over because we got you back,
Whispered Beth,
Sitting on her father's knee.
Rather a rough road for you to travel,
My little pilgrims,
Especially the latter part of it,
But you got on bravely and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon,
Said Mr March,
Looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.
How do you know,
Did mother tell you?
Asked Jo.
Not much,
Straws show which way the wind blows,
And I've made several discoveries today.
Tell us what they are,
Cried Meg,
Who sat beside him.
Here is one,
He said,
And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair,
He pointed to the roughened forefinger,
A burn on the back and two or three little hard spots on the palm.
I remember when this hand was white and smooth and your first care was to keep it so.
It was very pretty then,
But to me it is much prettier now,
For in these blemishes I read a little history.
A burnt offering's been made of vanity.
This hardened palm has earned something better than blisters,
And I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time.
Meg my dear,
I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments.
If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labour,
She received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he gave her.
What about Jo,
Said Beth in her father's ear?
Please say something nice,
She's tried so hard and been very,
Very good to me.
Mr March laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite,
With an unusually mild expression in her brown face.
As part of your curly crop,
I don't see the sun,
Jo,
Whom I left a year ago,
Said March.
I see a young lady who pins her collar straight,
Laces her boots neatly,
And neither whistles,
Talks slang,
Nor lies on the rug as she used to.
Her face is rather thin and pale,
With watching and anxiety,
But I like to look at it for it's grown gentler,
And her voice is lower.
She doesn't bounce but moves quietly and takes care of a certain little person in such a motherly way,
Which delights me.
I rather miss my wild girl,
But if I get a strong,
Helpful,
Tender-hearted woman in her place,
I shall feel quite satisfied.
Jo's eyes were rather dim for a minute,
Then her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise,
Feeling that she did not deserve a portion of it.
