The day arrived, and Aunt March descended, fatter than ever and splendid in new silk with an imposing rustle of petticoats. She lumbered into the house like a great purple elephant, and leaning on two canes not just one, for her lameness grows worse and she won’t have it that it is in any way a result of the fact that she spends her days sitting in a chair eating bonbons and drinking lemonade. Meg and John greeted her hospitably, took her bonnet, gave her the easy chair, and at last produced for her inspection the twins, all scrubbed up in their Sunday suits, and—as Hannah said—“fit to be shown to the Empress of Chiny herself.”
Alas for both appearances and maternal hopes of good behavior. And on this occasion it was not Demi who confounded his mother’s expectations, but angelic little Daisy, the child who loves everybody, who took one glance at Aunt March and straightaway opened her mouth to let loose so dismal a wail of distress and terror that you would have thought she was being held captive by a tribe of banshees who were using her plump little form for a pincushion.
“What on earth ails that child?” demanded Aunt March, her imperious tones happily drowning from her own hearing Daisy’s piteous cries of “howwid lady” and “fwighten Daisy.”
“She has the stomachache,” I assured her, sweeping Daisy quickly into my arms and up the stairs into the nursery, there to comfort her with chocolate drops and cuddles until the poor little soul had forgotten her fright, and fallen asleep in my arms, quite worn out by the ordeal of the encounter. A comfort for her, but a sore loss for me, for I later learned that while I was attending to Daisy, I missed the best spectacle of the afternoon. It seems that after we had left, Demi stood for some time in front of Aunt March, examining her gravely, wearing his “philosopher’s face,” which makes him look so much like a little miniature version of Father.
“Is you my great-great-aunt?” he inquired at last, tugging thoughtfully at his collar, which won’t lie flat no matter how Meg fixes it.
“I am,” she replied in her most magisterial of voices, bestowing upon him the famed “Aunt March gaze” that made us all quake so in our boots when we were children.
He continued to peer at her with furrowed brow and meditative air, and then interestedly asked, “Is that because you has such a great great belly?”
Meg says she wished a tornado would strike, or an earthquake engulf them all into the bowels of the ground. But imagine her astonishment when, after a moment, the old lady actually burst out laughing, and declared, “No, child, I have a great belly because I like my food far too well, and you are the image of your grandfather when he was your age. Would you like to sit upon my lap?”