“Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools—both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I’ve met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don’t expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: ‘Now, my man, what do you want here?’ Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: ‘Why didn’t he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord’.”
The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy.
“Shall we all rise?” asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour.
“It would be courteous.”
“Shall we shake hands?”
“No, I’ll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.”
“I wish I’d worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,” whispered Sally.
“Won’t my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?” said another.
“Don’t look as if you’d never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,” added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe.
“Hush, she’s coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!” cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest.
It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped.
A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady’s work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth.
It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe’s eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God’s name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be—truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a “dear old home”, and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered:
“I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman’s education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I’ve seen in America—Penelope among her maids.”
A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on.
“I feel better about the ‘odd jobs’ now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,” said one.
“I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: ‘Quite workmanlike, upon my word,’” added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour.
“Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke’s. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.”
Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said:
“I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I’m glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don’t want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don’t waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.”
“We will do our best, ma’am,” answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow.
CHAPTER 18
CLASS DAY
THE CLERK of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex.
College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President’s lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best.
Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were “no end nobby” but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane:
“My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn’t hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all be-holders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don’t ask for the most ridiculo
us head-gear in the known world.”
Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hardhearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before—like Beau Brummel—he turned from a heap of “failures” with the welcome words: “That will do.” Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was “a thing of beauty”, if not “a joy for ever”. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens’s afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the “long, black clothes-pin”—as Josie called him—and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and—oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!—an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy.
“How’s that for style?” he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion.
A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat.
“Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?” said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son.
“Let him wear it, Aunty; it’s so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn’t eighteen at least,” cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming.
“Father won’t observe it; he’ll be absorbed in his bigwigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he’ll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I’m in full fig” and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker.
“My son, obey me!” and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom.
Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the “little gardens” in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March’s fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while “the original Plums”, as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold.
The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were—as usual on such occasions—of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men’s faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman’s heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever.
Alice Heath’s oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to “march shoulder to shoulder”, as if she had chanted the “Marseillaise” then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President’s remarks.
They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year.
Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President’s reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school.
Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer’s hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor’s nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey.
She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement:
“Uncle, Aunt Jo, here’s another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?”
There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun.
“But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?” asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing
in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening.
“Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie’s marriage, and I thought I’d give you another nice little surprise,” laughed Emil. “I’m off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn’t fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.”
“Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,” cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him.
An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk—Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil’s graphic words, with Mary’s soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance.
“I never hear the patter of rain now that I don’t want to say my prayers; and as for women, I’d like to take my hat off to every one of ’em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,” said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone.
“If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl’s pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!” cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her.