Chapter 3
“We have a note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it with delight.
Mother is willing we should go; now what shall we wear?”
“What’s the use of asking, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven’t got anything else?” answered Jo.
“If only I had silk! sighed Meg.
“I’m sure our pops look silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine; whatever shall I do?”
“You must sit all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do.”
“Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and can’t get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
“You must have gloves, or I won’t go,” cried Meg decidedly. “You can’t dance without them, and if you don’t I should be so mortified.”
“Then I’ll stay still; I don’t care much for company dancing.”
“You can’t ask mother for new ones; they are so expensive. Can’t you fix them any way?” asked Meg anxiously.
“No! I’ll tell you how we can manage—each wear once good one and carry a bad one.”
“Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully,” began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
“Then I’ll go without . I don’t care what people say,” cried Jo, taking up her book.
“You may have it, you may! Only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely; don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say ‘Christopher Columbus!’ will you?”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as a dish, and not get into any scrapes. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this story.”
So Meg went away to “accept with thanks,” look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story and her apples.
On New Year’s Eve the parlour was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two elder ones were absorbed in the all-important business of “getting ready for the party.”
There was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, any by the united exertions of the family Jo’s hair was got up, and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits; Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly lines collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice white glove, and carried one soiled on. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were dreadfully tight, though she would not own it; and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into the head, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.
“Have a good time, dearies,” said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk, “Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you.” As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window, “Girls, girls! have you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?”
“Yes, yes, and Meg has Cologne on hers,” cried Jo; adding, with a laugh.
Down they went, feeling a trifle timid. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters, Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn’t care much for girlish gossip, stood about with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden.
Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them. She telegraphed her wishes to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show; so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began.
Jo saw a red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she slipped into a curtained recess. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.
The boy sat down and looked at his boots, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, “I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don’t you?”
“Next door,” and he looked up and laughed outright; for Jo’s prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted when he brought the cat home.
That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.”
“Garndpa sent it.”
“Nicely, think you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo.”
“I’m not Mr. Laurence; I’m only Laurie. Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie.
“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on people’s toes, or do something dreadful; so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg do the pretty. Don’t you dance?”
“Sometimes. You see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been about enough yet to know how you do things here.”
“Abroad!” cried Jo, “oh tell me about it!” Jo’s eager questions soon set him going; and he told her how he had been at school at Vevey, where the boys had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went walking trip about Switzerland with their teachers.
Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo’s gentel-manly demeanour amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted her eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls.
“I suppose you are going to college soon,” said Jo.
Laurie smiled, but didn’t seem shocked, and answered with a shrug, “Not for two or three years yet; I won’t go before seventeen anyway.”
“How I wish I was going to college; you don’t look as if you liked it.”
“I hate it; nothing but grinding our sky-larking; and I don’t like the way fellows do either in this country.”
“What do you like?”
“To live in Italy and to enjoy myself in my own way.”
Jo wanted to ask what his own way was; but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knitted them, so she changed the subject by saying, “That a splendid polka; why don’t you go and try it?”
“If you come too,” he answered with a queer little French bow.
“I can’t; for I told Meg I wouldn’t because”, There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
“Because what?” asked Laurie curiously.
“You won’t tell?”
“Never!”
“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh if you want to.”
But Laurie didn’t laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression on his face puzzled Jo; when he said very gently, “Never mind that; I’ll tell you we can manage: there’s a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”
Jo thanked him, and gladly went, and wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice pearl-coloured ones her partner put on. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well. When the music stopped they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo followed her into a side-room, where she round her on a sofa holding her foot, and looking pale.
“I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a horrid wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand.”
“I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly things. I’m sorry; but I don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke, “I can’t have a carriage without its costing ever so much; I dare say I can’t get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.”
“I’ll go.”
“No, indeed, it’s past ten, and dark as Egypt, I can’t stop here, for the house is full; Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.”
“I’ll ask Laurie; he will go,” said Jo.
“Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can’t dance any more; but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes.”
“They are going to supper now. I’ll stay with you; I’d rather.”
“No, dear; run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired, I can’t stir.”
So Meg reclined, with the rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining-room, which she found after going unto a china closet and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dive at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back.
“Can I help you?” said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
“I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired and someone shook me, and here I am, in a nice state,” answered Jo.
“Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to; may I take it to your sister?”
“Oh, thank you; I’ll show you where she is.” Jo led the way, and Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, was so obliging that Meg pronounced him a “nice boy”. They had a merry time over the bonbons and were mottoes and in the midst of a quiet game of ‘buzz’ with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation her things on.
“Hush! Don’t say anything,” she whispered; adding aloud, “It’s nothing; I turned my foot a little—that’s all,” and limped upstairs to put her things on.
Hunnah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits’ end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down, and was looking round for help, when Laurie came up and offered his grandfather’s carriage.
Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said, “Good night,” and crept in, hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy voices cried out—“Tell about the party!”
