Chapter 7
Annie Moffat was Meg’s dearest friend. She had invited Meg to a grand party on Sunday.
“What did mother give you out of the treasure-box?” Amy asked Meg.
“A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn’t time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlatan.”
“It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend.
“There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box; but mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me see; there’s my new grey walking suit—just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth; then my poplin, for Sunday, and the small party—it looks heavy for spring, doesn’t it? The violet silk would be so nice; oh, dear!”
The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendour of the house and the elegance of its occupants. It was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. Soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her; to put on little airs and graces, and talk about the fashions.
The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things, the more she envied them.”
When the evening for the ‘small party’ came, she found that the poplin wouldn’t do at all; so out came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever, beside Sallie’s crisp new one. No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to do her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms; but, in their kindness, Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy. The hard bitter felling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and ferns within.
Meg enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart’s content; everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some-one said she had remarkably fine voice; Major Lincoln asked who “the fresh little girl, with the beautiful eyes was”; and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she “didn’t dawdle, but had some spring her her”. So altogether, she had very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask—“How old is she?”
“Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.
“It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it?”
“Mrs. March has laid her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs. Moffat.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once; they treated her with more respect, she thought, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle said, with a sentimental air—
“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to you friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday.”
Meg coloured, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely—“You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”
“Why not, dear,” asked Miss Belle.
“He’s too old.”
“My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know?” cried Miss Clara.
“Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg.
“You sly creature! Of course, we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
“There isn’t any; Laurie is only a little boy.”
“About your age?” Miss Belle said.
“Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,” returned Meg, tossing her head.
“It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie.
“Yes; he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, so it’s quite natural we children should play together.”
On the Thursday evening Belle shut herself up with her maid, and, between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimpled and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense would have added ‘a soupon of rouge,’ if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filigree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even ear-rings. A cluster of tea rosebuds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high- heeled blue silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder finished her off.
As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her ear-rings tinkled, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her ‘fun’ had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was ‘a little beauty.’
She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attract a certain class of people. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden; several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, asked to be introduced and several old ladies inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them—“Daisy March—Father a colonel in the army—one of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you.”
“I am glad you have come,” Meg told Laurie in her most grown-up manner.
Laurie glanced at her frizzled head, here shoulders and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness about it—“I don’t like fuss and feathers.”
That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself; and Meg walked away, saying petulantly—“You are the rudest boy I ever saw.”
Away they went, fleetly and gracefully; for, having practised at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their tiff.
“Laurie, I want you to do me a favour, will you?” said Meg, as he stood fanning her, when her breath gave out. “Won’t I!” said Laurie with alacrity.
“Please don’t tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won’t understand the joke, and it will worry mother.”
“Then why did you do it?” said Laurie’s eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added;
“I shall tell them, myself, all about it.”
“Home is a nice place, though it isn’t splendid,” said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening.
“I’m glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you, after your fine quarters,” replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day.
Meg had told her adventure gaily, and said what a charming time she had; but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and, when the younger girls looking worried. As the clock struck nine, and Jo proposed bed, gone to bed, she sat staring at the fire, saying little, and bed, Meg suddenly left her chair, and taking Beth’s stool leaned her elbows on her mother’s knee, saying bravely—
“They rigged me up, but I didn’t tell you that they powdered, and squeezed, and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion plate. Laurie thought I wasn’t proper; and one man called me a doll.”
“Is that all?” asked Mrs. March.
“No; I drank champagne, and romped, and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable.”
“There is something more, I think,” and Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy, as Meg answered slowly—
“Yes; it’s very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie.”
Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats’.
“That is perfectly natural and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion, and lead one to do foolish things; Learn to value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people, by being modest as well as pretty, Meg,” observed Mrs. March.
Mrs. March further remarked—“Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives. Don’t be troubled, Meg; poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Remember, my girls mother is always ready to be your confidante, father to be your friend; and both of us trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives.”
