“Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs. Moffat.
“She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She’d be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.
“She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one.”
Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has made her plans,” “that fib about her mamma,” and ‘dowdy tarlatan,” till she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.
Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said, 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 looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air . . .
“Daisy, dear, I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment to you.”
Meg colored, 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, Cherie?” 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, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes.
“You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.
“There isn’t any, Laurie is only a little boy.” And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover.
“About you age,” Nan 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, looking wise about nothing.
“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, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together.” And Meg hoped they would say no more.