chapter 13 Castles In The Air
Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbours were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of his hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.
`What in the world are those girls about now?' thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbours. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and the river.
`Well, that's cool!' said Laurie to himself, `to have a picnic and never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on.'
Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A group of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.
`Here's a landscape!' thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide awake and good-natured already.
It was rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs, as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and as sweet as a rose, in her pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.
`May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?' he asked, advancing slowly.
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said at once, `Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this.'
`I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away.'
`I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be idle here,' replied Meg, gravely but graciously.
`Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready,' and Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold.
`Finish this story while I set my heel,' said Jo, handing him the book.
`Yes'm,' was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favour of an admission into the `Busy Bee Society'.
The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions, as a reward of merit.
`Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?'
`Would you tell him?' asked Meg of her sisters.
`He'll laugh,' said Amy, warningly.
`Who cares?' said Jo.
`I guess he'll like it,' added Beth.
`Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid.'
`The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play Pilgrim's Progress, an we have been going on with it in earnest all winter and summer.'
`Yes, I know,' said Laurie, nodding wisely.
`Who told you?' demanded Jo.
`Spirits.'
`No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo,' said Beth, meekly.
`You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now.' `Go on, please,' said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.
`Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle.'
`Yes, I should think so'; and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle ways.
`Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the "Delectable Mountain", for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time.'
Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the wood one could look across the wide blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendour of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.
`How beautiful that is!' said Laurie, softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.
`It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid,' replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
`Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time - the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it,' said Beth, musingly.
`There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go by and by, when we are good enough,' answered Meg, with her sweet voice.
`It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate.'
`You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that,' said Jo; `I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all.'
`You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?'
Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, `If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian, as he comes up from the river.'
`Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?' said Jo, after a little pause.
`I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have,' said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.
`You'd have to take your favourite one. What is it?' asked Meg.
`If I tell mine, will you tell yours?'
`Yes, if the girls will too.'
`We will. Now, Laurie.'
`After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That's my favourite castle. What's yours, Meg?'
Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, `I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things - nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good and make everyone love me dearly.'
`Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?' asked Laurie, slyly.
`I said "pleasant people", you know'; and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
`Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without,' said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.
`You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,' answered Meg, petulantly.
`Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle - something heroic or wonderful, that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that is my favourite dream.'
`Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take care of the family,' said Beth, contentedly.
`Don't you wish for anything else?' asked Laurie.
`Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else.'
`I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world,' was Amy's modest desire.
`We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes,' said Laurie, chewing grass, like a meditative calf.
`I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen,' observed Jo, mysteriously. `I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!' muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh.
`Here's mine!' and Amy waved her pencil.
`I haven't got any,' said Meg, forlornly.
`Yes, you have,' said Laurie at once.
`Where?'
`In your face.'
`Nonsense; that's of no use.'
`Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having,' replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew.
Meg coloured behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.
`If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now,' said Jo, always ready with a plan.
`Bless me! how old I shall be - twenty-seven!' exclaimed Meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
`You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!' said Jo.
`I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall "dawdle", Jo.'
`You need a motive, Mother says; and when you get it she is sure you'll work splendidly.'
`Is she? By Jupiter! I will, if I only get the chance!' cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. `I ought to be satisfied to please Grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from business; but he's set, and I've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it tomorrow.'
Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.
`I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way,' said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called `Teddy's wrongs'.
`That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice.'
`You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy,' said Meg, in her most maternal tone. `Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal, or fret, but do your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved.'
`What do you know about him?' asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak.
`Only what your grandpa told us about him - how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be.'
`So he is, dear old fellow!' said Laurie, heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. `It's like Grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful, friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke.'
`Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out,' said Meg, sharply.
`How do you know I do, Miss?'
`I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better.'
`Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you! I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph.'
`We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know,' cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
`I don't tell tales,' replied Laurie, with his `high and mighty' air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore, `only, if Brooke is going to be a barometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report.'
`Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me. I meant it kindly.' And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.
Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, `I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the same.'
Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible - wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the `Busy Bee Society'. In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea `to draw', and they would just have time to get home to supper.
`May I come again?' asked Laurie.
`Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do,' said Meg, smiling.
`I'll try.'
`Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do; there's a demand for socks just now,' added Jo, waving hers, like a big, blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate.
That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his grey head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, `I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has.'
chapter 14 Secrets
Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming:
`There, I've done my best! If this won't suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better.'
Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it up with a smart, red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle, Jo produced another manuscript; and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink.
She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.
If anyone had been watching her he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manoeuvre she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of the building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
There was a dentist's sign, among others which adorned the entrance, and, after staring a minute at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying, with a smile and a shiver:
`It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home.'
In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort.
When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of sympathy:
`Did you have a bad time?'
`Not very.'
`You got through quickly.'
`Yes, thank goodness!'
`Why did you go alone?'
`Didn't want anyone to know.'
`You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?'
Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something.
`There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week.'
`What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,' said Laurie, looking mystified.
`So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?'
`Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.'
`I'm glad of that.'
`Why?'
`You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.'
Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.
`I'll teach you, whether we play Hamlet or not; it's grand fun, and will straighter, you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your reason for saying "I'm glad", in that decided way; was it, now?'
`No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?'
`Not often.'
`I wish you wouldn't.'
`It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.'
`Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your friends,' said Jo, shaking her head.
`Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?' asked Laurie, looking nettled.
`That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now.'
`Won't she?' asked Laurie, anxiously.
`No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.'
`Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?'
`Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? or there will be an end of all our good times.'
`I'll be a double-distilled saint.'
`I can't bear saints; just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy, and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid.'
`You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged.'
`No, I don't - oh, dear, no! - but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I shouldn't worry then.'
`Do you worry about me, Jo?'
`A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do; for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you.'
Laurie walked in silence for a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings.
`Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?' he asked presently.
`Of course not; why?'
`Because, if you are, I'll take a bus; if you are not, I'd like to walk with you, and tell you something very interesting.'
`I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely.'
`Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours.'
`I haven't got any,' began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
`You know you have you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I won't tell,' cried Laurie.
`Is your secret a nice one?'
`Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin.'
`You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?'
`Not a word.'
`And you won't tease me in private?'
`I never tease.'
`Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.'
`Thank you; fire away.'
`Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week,' whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear.
`Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!' cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children; for they were out of the city now.
`Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn't want anyone else to be disappointed.'
`It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare, compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print; and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?'
Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
`Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again,' she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.
`I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is.'
`Is that all?' said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence. `It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is.'
`Tell then.'
Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, `How do you know?'
`Saw it.'
`Where?'
`Pocket.'
`All this time?'
`Yes; isn't that romantic?'
`No, it's horrid.'
`Don't you like it?'
`Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My patience! what would Meg say?'
`You are not to tell anyone; mind that.'
`I didn't promise.'
`That was understood, and I trusted you.'
`Well, I won't for the present, anyway; but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me.'
`I thought you'd be pleased.'
`At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.'
`You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.'
`I'd like to see anyone try it,' cried Jo, fiercely.
`So should I!' and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
`I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that,' said Jo, rather ungratefully.
`Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right,' suggested Laurie.
No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly before her; and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
`I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are,' said Jo, dropping down under a maple-tree which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.
Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did pass by, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.
`What in the world are you doing here?' she asked, regarding her dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise.
`Getting leaves,' meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.
`And hairpins,' added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. `They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats.'
`You have been running, Jo; how could you? When will you be stopping such romping ways?' said Meg, reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
`Never till I'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg: it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can.'
As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, `Where have you been calling all so fine?'
`At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!'
`Do you envy her, Meg?' said Laurie.
`I'm afraid I do.'
`I'm glad of it,' muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
`Why?' asked Meg, looking surprised.
`Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man,' said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.
`I shall never "go and marry" anyone,' observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and `behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woebegone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another and talking about `Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.
`What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady,' sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
`I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is,' said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with anyone but her.
`It's very trying, but we can never make her commy la fo,' added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming was - two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.
In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.
`Have you anything interesting there?' asked Meg, with condescension.
`Nothing but a story; won't amount to much, I guess,' returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
`You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out of mischief,' said Amy, in her most grown-up tone.
`What's the name?' asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet.
`The Rival Painters.'
`That sounds well; read it,' said Meg.
With a loud `Hem' and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.
`I like that about the splendid picture,' was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused.
`I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favourite names; isn't that queer?' said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the `lovering part' was tragical.
`Who wrote it?' asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face.
The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement, replied in a loud voice, `Your sister.'
`You?' cried Meg, dropping her work.
`It's very good,' said Amy, critically.
`I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!' and Beth began to hug her sister, and exult over this splendid success.
Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! how Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words `Miss Josephine March' actually printed in the paper; how graciously Amy criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth got excited, and skipped and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim `Sakes alive, well I never!' in great astonishment at `that Jo's doin's'; how proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it; and how the `Spread Eagle' might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand.
`Tell us all about it.'
`When did it come?'
`How much did you get for it?'
`What will Father say?'
`Won't Laurie laugh?' cried the family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy.
`Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything,' said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina, than she did over her Rival Painters. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, `And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said; and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let him; and he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls.'
Jo's breath gave out here; and., wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears; for to be independent, and earn the praise of those she loved, were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step towards that happy end.
chapter 15 A Telegram
`November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year' said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frost-bitten garden.
`That's the reason I was born in it,' observed Jo, pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
`If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month,' said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November.
`I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,' said Meg, who was out of sorts. `We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill.'
`My patience, how blue we are!' cried Jo. `I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly; then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad and come home my Lady Something, in a blaze of splendour and elegance.'
`People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays; men have to work, and women to marry for money. It's a dreadful unjust world,' said Meg, bitterly.
`Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all; just wait ten years, and see if we don't,' said Amy, who sat in a corner, making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.
`Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt, though I'm grateful for your good intentions.' Meg sighed, and turned to the frost-bitten garden again; Jo groaned, and leaned both elbows on the table, in a despondent attitude, but Amy patted away energetically; and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, `Two pleasant things are going to happen right away; Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice to tell.'
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question,
`Any letter from Father, girls?' and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, `Won't some of you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won't you?'
`Of course we will.'
`Much obliged, but I'm busy'; and Meg whisked out her work-basket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive often with the young gentleman.
`We three will be ready in a minute,' cried Amy, running away to wash her hands.
`Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?' asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair, with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her.
`No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps.'
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter.
`It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,' she said, handing it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
At the word `telegraph', Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice:
`MRS. MARCH:
Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
S. HALE,
Blank Hospital, Washington.'
How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself again directly; read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, `I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear it!' For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example; for, with her, work was the panacea for most afflictions.
`The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time a cryin', but git your things ready right away, mum,' she said, heartily, as she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away, to work like three women in one.
`She's right; there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me think.'
They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale, but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.
`Where's Laurie?' she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts, and decided on the first duties to be done.
`Here, ma'am. Oh, let me do something!' cried the boy, hurrying from the next room, whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
`Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. I'll take that.'
`What else? The horses are ready; I can go anywhere, do anything,' he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
`Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper.'
Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly-copied pages, Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father.
`Now go, dear; but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace; there is no need of that.'
Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away; for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.
`Jo, run to the rooms and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put them down; they'll be needed, and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine: I'm not too proud to beg for Father; he shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk; and Meg, come and help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered.'
Writing, thinking, and directing, all at once, might well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit down quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from his own dressing-gown to himself as escort. But that last was impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journey; yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
`I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,' he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. `I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there.'
Down dropped the rubbers, arid the tea was very near following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude, that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trilling one of time and comfort which he was about to make.
`How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure; and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!'
Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely, till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlour, saying she would call her mother.
Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often said before - that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly, in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there.
The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a `slap and a bang', but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious; and Laurie went off to find her, for no one ever knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice, `That's my contribution towards making Father comfortable, and bringing him home!'
`My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars? Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash?'
`No, it's mine honestly; I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it; and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own.'
As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
`Your hair! Your beautiful hair!'
`Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.'
`My dear girl, there was no need of this.'
`She doesn't look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!'
As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush, and trying to look as if she liked it, `It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off; my head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied; so please take the money, and let's have supper.'
`Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid you will regret it, one of these days,' said Mrs. March.
`No, I won't!' returned Jo, stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned.
`What made you do it?' asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
`Well, I was wild to do something for Father,' replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. `I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew Aunt March would croak; she always does, if you ask for a nine-pence. Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it.'
`You needn't feel wicked, my child; you had no winter things, and got the simplest with your own hard earnings, said Mrs. March, with a look that warmed Jo's heart.
`I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came over me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for mine.'
`I don't see how you dared to do it,' said Beth, in a tone of awe.
`Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable colour, and he never paid much for it in the first place; the work put into it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid, if it wasn't done right away, that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up; so I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly: "Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling".'
`Who was Jimmy?' asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along.
`Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely.'
`Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?' asked Meg, with a shiver.
`I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that; I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again.'
Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short grey one in her desk. She only said, `Thank you, deary', but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock, Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, `Come, girls.' Beth went to the piano and played the father's favourite hymn; all began bravely, but broke down one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.
`Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings,' said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room.
Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek: `Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about Father?'
`No, not now.'
`What then?'
`My - my hair!' burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow.
It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
`I'm not sorry,' protested Jo, with a choke. `I'd do it again tomorrow, if I could. It's only the vain, selfish part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell anyone, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?'
`I can't sleep, I'm so anxious,' said Meg.
`Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off.'
`I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever.'
`What did you think of?'
`Handsome faces - eyes particularly,' answered Meg, smiling to herself, in the dark.
`What colour do you like best?'
`Brown - that is, sometimes; blue are lovely.'
Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air.
The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, `Be comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds.'
chapter 16 Letters
In the cold grey dawn the sisters lit their lamp, and read their
chapter with an earnestness never felt before; for now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort; and, as they dressed, they agreed to say good-bye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down - so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her night-cap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn, with sleeplessness and anxiety, that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once; and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them.
Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag:
`Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbour will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy; and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless.'
`Yes, Mother.'
`Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and, in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get despondent or do rash things; write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer us all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home.'
`We will, Mother! we will!'
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well; no one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they spoke, that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.
Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him `Mr. Greatheart' on the spot.
`Good-bye, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!' whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage.
As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing she beheld, as she turned the corner, was the four bright faces, and behind them, like a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.
`How kind everyone is to us!' she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
`I don't see how they can help it,' returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling; and so the long journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
`I feel as if there had been an earthquake,' said Jo, as their neighbours went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
`It seems as if half the house was gone,' added Meg, forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely minded hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts; and, in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and, when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffee-pot.
`Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family.'
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee-pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.
`"Hope and keep busy", that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she lecture though!' said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
`I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here,' said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
`No need of that, Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,' put in Amy, with an important air.
`Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when you come home,' added Beth, getting out her mop and dish-tub without delay.
`I think anxiety is very interesting,' observed Amy, eating sugar, pensively.
The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar-bowl.
The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone; but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin.
`That's so like my Beth!' said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. `Good-bye, Meggy; I hope the Kings won't trail today. Don't fret about Father, dear,' she added, as they parted.
`And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice,' returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders.
`That's my only comfort'; and, touching her hat, * la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much; for, though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more and more cheering as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter-box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them:
My Dearest Mother - It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know that her `moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her how to make buttonholes, and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says; and Laurie is very kind and neighbourly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss `Margaret', which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy; but we long day and night to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own.
Meg.
This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters:
was in the right. He didn't come; and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
I made a `pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash; and, as Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your
Topsy-Turvy Jo.
A Song From The Suds
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high;
And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free, fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing day!
Along the path of a useful life,
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow or care or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
As we bravely wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given,
To labour at day by day;
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say, -
`Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
But, Hand, you shall work alway!'
Dear Mother - There is only room for me to send my love and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father's tune. I can't sing `Land of the Leal' now; it makes me cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving
Little Beth.
Ma Chere Mamma - We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls - Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to papa - Your affectionate daughter
Amy Curtis March.
Dear Mis March - I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for going ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur; I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent; but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia - Yours Respectful,
Hannah Mullet.
Head Nurse Of Ward No. 2 - All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander-in-Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at head-quarters. Commander-in-Chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by
Colonel Teddy.
Dear Madam - The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily; Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending - Your sincere friend and servant,
James Laurence.
chapter 17 Little Faithful
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighbourhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavour deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.
All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
`Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know Mother told us not to forget them,' said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
`I'm too tired to go this afternoon,' replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed.
`Can't you, Jo?' asked Beth.
`Too stormy for me with my cold.'
`I thought it was almost well.'
`It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels', said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
`Why don't you go yourself?' asked Meg.
`I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it; but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go.'
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.
`Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth; the air will do you good,' said Jo, adding apologetically, `I'd go, but I want to finish my writing.'
`My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,' said Beth.
`Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,' suggested Meg.
`Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her.'
So Beth lay down on the sofa, and others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed: Amy did not come; Meg went to her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends f or the poor children, and went out into the chilly air, with a heavy head, and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour after, Jo went to `Mother's closet' for something, and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest looking very grave, with red eyes, and a camphor-bottle in her hand.
`Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?' cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly:
`You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?'
`Years ago, when Meg did. Why?'
`Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!'
`What baby?'
`Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home,' cried Beth, with a sob.
`My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,' said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair, with a remorseful face.
`It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was dead.'
`Don't cry, dear! What did you do?'
`I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have got sore throats. "Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before," he said, crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others, and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder; but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round, all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever.'
`No, you won't!' cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. `Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What shall we do?'
`Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better,' said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead, and trying to look well.
`If Mother was only at home!' exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, `You've been over the baby for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it; so I'm afraid you are going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.'
`Don't let Amy come: she never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?' asked Beth anxiously.
`I guess not; don't care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!' muttered Jo, as she went to consult Hannah.
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring Jo that there was no need to worry, everyone had scarlet fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died - all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.
`Now I'll tell you what we'll do,' said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth; `we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right; then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.'
`I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest,' began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful.
`I shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told Mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't,' said Jo, decidedly.
`Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one,' said Hannah.
`Jo, please,' and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a contented look, which effectually settled that point.
`I'll go and tell Amy,' said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.
Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded: all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go; and Meg left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlour to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled; but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets, and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, `Now, be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take you out every day driving or walking, and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?'
`I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,' began Amy, in an injured voice.
`Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you?'
`No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time.'
`That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say; or, if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.'
`But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross,' said Amy, looking rather frightened.
`It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do.'
`Will you take me out in the trotting waggon with Puck?'
`On my honour as a gentleman.'
`And come every single day?'
`See if I don't.'
`And bring me back the minute Beth is well?'
`The identical minute.'
`And go to the hall, truly?'
`A dozen halls, if we may.'
`Well - I guess - I will,' said Amy, slowly.
`Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in,' said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the `giving in'.
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
`How is the little dear?' asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
`She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so; but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,' answered Meg.
`What a trying world it is!' said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful sort of way. `No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother's gone; so I'm all at sea.'
`Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother or do anything?' asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty.
`That is what troubles me,' said Meg. `I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother can't leave Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me.'
`Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor has been.'
`We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,' commanded Meg; `we can't decide anything till he has been.'
`Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment,' said Laurie, taking up his cap.
`I'm afraid you are busy,' began Meg.
`No, I've done my lessons for today.'
`Do you study in vacation time?' asked Jo.
`I follow the good example my neighbours set me,' was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room.
`I have great hopes of my boy,' observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile.
`He does very well - for a boy,' was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her.
Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and, provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.
Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.
`What do you want now?' she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out:
`Go away. No boys allowed here.'
Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.
`No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful, if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be - looks like it now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff.'
Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out, `Bless my boots!' in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
`What do you hear from your mother?' asked the old lady, gruffly.
`Father is much better,' replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
`Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had any stamina,' was the cheerful reply.
`Hah, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good-bye, good-bye!' squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.
`Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better go at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattle-pated boy like--'
`Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!' cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the `rattle-pated boy', who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
`I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try,' thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March.
`Get along, you fright!' screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.
chapter 18 Dark Days
Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything all her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of `Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle'. Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly, as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet, as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left; a time when she did not know the familiar faces round her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she `would think of it, though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home! Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy - in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room with that suffering little sister always before her eyes, and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by the exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbour who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did; poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness, and to get a shroud for Minna; the neighbours sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best, were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn prot間閑. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick; and, in her quiet hours, she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon; and often begged for pencil and paper to try and say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, to Hannah: `If Mrs. March can leave her husband she'd better be sent for.'
Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Meg dropped down into a chair, as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words: and Jo, after standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlour, snatched up the telegram, and, throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly: `What is it? is Beth worse?'
`I've sent for Mother,' said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragical expression.
`Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?' asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair, and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.
`No, the doctor told us to.'
`Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?' cried Laurie, with a startled face.
`Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall; she doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it; Mother and Father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find him.'
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could, with a lump in his throat: `I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!'
She could not speak, but she did `Hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done; far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence, teamed the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.
`Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes.'
`Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be right.'
`I'm so glad Father is better; now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! it does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders,' sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.
`Doesn't Meg pull fair?' asked Laurie, looking indignant.
`Oh, yes; she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do; and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up. I can't! I can't!' Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly; for she had kept up bravely till now, and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choking feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I'm glad of it. Presently as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, `I don't think she will die; she's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take her away yet.'
`The good and dear people always do die,' groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up, in spite of her own doubts and fears.
`Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit; I'll hearten you up in a jiffy.'
Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo; and, when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile and said bravely, `I drink health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend; how can I ever pay you?' she added; the kind words had refreshed her troubled mind.
`I'll send in my bill, by and by; and tonight I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine,' said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something.
`What is it?' cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her wonder.
`I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?'
Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth.
Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, `Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!' She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.
Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind; he patted her back soothingly and, finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, `Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was dreadful of me; but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again; it makes me act so stupidly.'
`I don't mind,' laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie.
`Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth - well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa. to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah 'most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be "lorded" over, so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at 2 a.m. I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet, till that blessed lady gets here.'
`Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?'
`Fly at me again; I rather like it,' said Laurie, looking mischievous - a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
`No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!'
Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the assembled cats, that she was `happy, oh, so happy!' while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather a neat thing of it.
`That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and do hope Mrs. March is coming on right away,' said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news.
Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah `knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected'. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change; Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window, and fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness; and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, `Mother's coming, dear! Mother's coming!' Everyone rejoiced but Beth; she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and anger. It was a piteous sight - the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow.
All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, `Water!' with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother; and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last; and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot, and fell fast asleep; Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlour, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.
The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them, as they kept their watch with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.
`If God spares Beth I never will complain again,' whispered Meg, earnestly.
`If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve him all my life,' answered Jo, with equal fervour.
`I wish I had no heart, it aches so,' sighed Meg, after a pause.
`If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it,' added her sister, despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another hour - still no one came; and anxious fears of delay in the storm or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the poor girls.
It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding-sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and, turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before her mother's easy-chair, with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, `Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.' She was back in her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose, that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, `Good-bye, my Beth; good-bye!'
As if waked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, `The fever's turned; she's sleeping nat'ral; her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!'
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled, and said, with a fatherly look at them, `Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet; let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her--' What they were to give, neither heard; for both crept into the dark hall, and sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
`If Mother would only come now!' said Jo, as the winter night began to wane.
`See,' said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, `I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she - went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first things she sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face.'
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely, as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
`It looks like a fairy world,' said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
`Hark!' cried Jo, starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying, in a joyful whisper, `Girls, she's come! she's come!'
chapter 19 Amy's Will
While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted anyone; she did not approve of it; but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and grey hair, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago - a process which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.
She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver tea-pot, and the glasses, till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had claw legs, and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly must be fed, the lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things, to deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labours, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March, till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode, and had capital times. After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.
If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the dog - a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady.
Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with `Madame', as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests; for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, and queer rockets, with portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of hair inside; the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of them all.
`Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?' asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
`I liked the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I might,' replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
`I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic,' said Esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.
`Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?' asked Amy.
`Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou. If Mademoiselle went apart each day to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame, it would be well. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble.'
`Would it be right for me to do so too?' asked Amy, who, in her loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her of it.
`It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God to preserve your sister.'
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.
`I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies,' she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the jewel-cases one by one.
`To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed her will, and it is to be so,' whispered Esther, smiling.
`How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Procras-ti-nation is not agreeable,' observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
`It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first one who is affianced will have the pearls - Madame has said it; and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behaviour and charming manners.
`Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March after all'; and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delightful face, and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It Was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little testament and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every day to sit alone, `thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister'. Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling more than doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender friend, Whose fatherly love most closely surrounds His little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done; so that if she did fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady's jewels.
During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favourite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterwards, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, `Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! ha!'
Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.
`Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult you about a very serious matter,' said Amy, when she had shown her splendour, and driven Polly into a corner. `That bird is the trial of my life,' she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. `Yesterday, when Aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the book-case; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the book-case, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, "Come out and take a walk, my dear." I couldn't help laughing, which made Poll swear, and Aunt woke up and scolded us both.'
`Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?' asked Laurie, yawning.
`Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on Aunt's chair, calling out, "Catch her! catch her! catch her!" as I chased the spider.'
`That's a lie! Oh, lor!' cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
`I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment,' cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely croaked, `Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!'
`Now I'm ready,' said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out of her pocket. `I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb.'
Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:
`My Last Will And Testament'
`I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeath all my earthly property - viz., to wit: - namely
`To my Father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
`To my Mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets - also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
`To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her "little girl".
`To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstand - she lost the cover - and my most precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her story.
`To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars, and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
`To my friend and neighbour Theodore Laurence I bequeath my paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best.
`To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favours to her family, specially Beth.
`I wish my favourite play mate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold bead ring with a kiss.
`To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work I leave hoping she will "remember me, when it you see".
`And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.
`To this will and testament I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
`Amy Curtis March.
`Witnesses
Estelle Valnor
Theodore Laurence.'
The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly.
`What put it into your head? Did anyone tell you about Beth's giving away her things?' asked Laurie, soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
She explained; and then asked anxiously, `What about Beth?'
`I'm sorry I spoke: but as I did I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. She never thought of a will.'
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she only said, `Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?'
`Yes; "codicils", they call them.'
`Put one in mine, then - that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks.'
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with trembling lips, `Is there really any danger about Beth?'
`I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear'; and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to her little room, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.
chapter 20 Confidential
I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother; for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.
Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.
What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbour. Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.
Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told you so". Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman". Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl", blessed her buttons, and begged her to `come and take a walk, dear!' in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and, when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.
After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the little room, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her.
`On the contrary, I like it very much, dear,' looking from the footstool to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. `It is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?'
`Yes, Mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is not good - it's too beautiful for me to draw - but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think he was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and that helps me.'
As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on His mother's knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she added, gravely:
`I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always. She gave me that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too big. I'd like to wear them, Mother; can I?'
`They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy,' said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard, formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.
`I'll try not to be vain,' said Amy. `I don't think I like it only because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelets, to remind me of something.'
`Do you mean Aunt March?' asked her mother, laughing.
`No, to remind me not to be selfish.' Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan.
`I've thought a great deal lately about my "bundle of naughties", and being selfish is the largest one on it; so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thought of losing her. People wouldn't feel half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them; but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions; but if I had something always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May I try this way?'
`Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again.'
That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and, finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
`What is it, deary?' asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence.
`I want to tell you something, Mother.'
`About Meg?'
`How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me.'
`Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?' asked Mrs. March, rather sharply.
`No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had,' said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. `Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was returned. We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?'
`Do you think Meg cares for him?' asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look.
`Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!' cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. `In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort; she eats and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature; she looks straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought.'
`Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?'
`Who?' cried Jo, staring.
`Mr. Brooke. I call him "John" now; we fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it.'
`Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to Father, and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! to go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him'; and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
`My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honourable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg engaging herself so young.'
`Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing; I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family.'
This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, `Jo, I confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings towards him.'
`She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentally at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cosy times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother.' Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook her fist at the represhensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief.
`You don't like it, Mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been.'
`I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her.'
`Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?' asked Jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.
`Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the dally bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune.'
`I understand, Mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?' asked Jo, looking up, with a brighter face.
`He is younger than she, you know,' began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in: `Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all; and I say it's a pity my plan is spoilt.'
`I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough to Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock, just now, for anyone to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get "romantic rubbish", as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship.'
`Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats - more's the pity!'
`What's that about flat-irons and cats?' asked Meg, as she crept into the room, with the finished letter in her hand.
`Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy,' said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle.
`Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John,' said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it back.
`Do you call him "John"?' asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother's.
`Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,' replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
`I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,' was Meg's quiet answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, `She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to.'
chapter 21 Laurie Makes Mischief, And Jo Makes Peace
Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.
She was quite right; for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper relation for the slight.
Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.
`She feels it in the air - love, I mean - and she's going very fast. She's got most of the symptoms - is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said "John", as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?' said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.
`Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father's coming will settle everything,' replied her mother.
`Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up! How odd! Teddy never seals mine,' said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post-office.
Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face.
`My child, what is it?' cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
`It's all a mistake - he didn't send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?' and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken.
`Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?' cried Jo, bewildered.
Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully: `You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?' Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.
My Dearest Margaret - I Can no longer restrain my passion and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would consent if they knew that we adore one another. Mr. Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to
Your devoted John.
`Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to Mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over to beg pardon,' cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore: `Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this.'
`On my word, Mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and I don't know anything about it, as true as I live!' said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. `If I had taken a part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that,' she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
`It's like his writing,' faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.
`Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?' cried Mrs. March, quickly.
`Yes, I did!' and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
`Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him'; and Jo made for the door again.
`Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,' commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.
`I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it,' began Meg, without looking up. `I was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I was deciding what to say I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do.
`Forgive me, Mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in the face again.'
`What did you say to him?' asked Mrs. March.
`I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to Father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while.'
Mrs. March smiled, as if pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh:
`You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?'
`He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!'
Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden, she stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely, said decidedly, `I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because I wouldn't tell him my secret.'
`Don't have any secrets Jo; tell it to Mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should have done,' said Meg, warningly.
`Bless you, child! Mother told me.'
`That will do, I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once.'
Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. `Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till lie can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?'
`I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while - perhaps never,' answered Meg, petulantly. `If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of - it's a shame!'
Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused, and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future.
The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlour rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke.
`I'll never tell him to my dying day - wild horses shan't drag it out of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am,' he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
`I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie, replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
`It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won't you?' and Laurie folded his hands together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behaviour. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel. Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word.
As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when Meg and her mother went upstairs she felt lonely and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.
`Is Mr. Laurence in?' asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs.
`Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet.'
`Why not? is he ill?'
`La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him.'
`Where is Laurie?'
`Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it.'
`I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them.'
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly at the door of Laurie's little study.
`Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!' called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, `Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have.'
`It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo,' was the cavalier reply to her petition.
`Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind.'
`I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!' growled Laurie, indignantly.
`Who did it?' demanded Jo.
`Grandfather; if it had been anyone else I'd have--' And the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
`That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind,' said Jo, soothingly.
`Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake me.'
I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?'
`Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word.'
`Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?'
`No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself.'
`It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll help you.'
`Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong.'
`He didn't know that.'
`He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo; he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need anyone's apron strings to hold on by.'
`What pepper-pots you are!' sighed Jo. `How do you mean to settle this affair?'
`Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the fuss is about.'
`Bless you! he won't do that.'
`I won't go down till he does.'
`Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?'
`I don't intend to stay here long, anyway. I'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough.'
`I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him.'
`Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles.'
`What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too,' said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of material life at the capital.
`Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir up old Brooke.'
`It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father.'
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite. And she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
`If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time; but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan.'
`That's the fun of it,' began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
`Hold your tongue!' cried Jo, covering her ears. ` "Prunes and prisms" are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralise, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of.'
`I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit,' began Laurie, insinuatingly.
`Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to mine. If I get grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?' asked Jo, seriously.
`Yes, but you won't do it,' answered Laurie, who wished to `make up', but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
`If I can manage the young one I can the old one,' muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head propped up on both hands.
`Come in!' and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.
`It's only me, sir, come to return a book,' she said, blandly, as she entered.
`Want any more?' asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.
`Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second volume,' returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswell's Johnson as he had recommended that lively work.
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps towards the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward on the floor.
`What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a word from him; and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room.'
`He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to anyone,' began Jo, reluctantly.
`That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you softhearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo! I won't be kept in the dark.'
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming, and spoke so sharply, that Jo would gladly have run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.
`Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but it's all right now; so let's forget it, and talk about the Rambler, or something pleasant.'
`Hang the Rambler! come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own hands.'
The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth.
`Hum - ha - well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage, said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
`So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't,' said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
`You think I'm not kind to him, hey?' was the sharp answer.
`Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?'
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table, with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly: `You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I don't know how it will end, if we go on so.'
`I'll tell you, he'll run away.' Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
`He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India.'
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole thing as a joke.
`You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are; yet we can't do without them,' he said, pinching her cheeks good-humouredly. `Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it.'
`He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much.'
Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
`I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?' and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
`If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty.'
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, `You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense.'
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie's door, advising him, through the keyhole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, aid was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, `What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?' he added, laughing.
`No; he was pretty mild, on the whole.'
`Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce,' he began, apologetically.
`Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son.'
`I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end,' he said, dolefully.
`Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry,' and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.
`That's a "label" on my "sect"', answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper, and overwhelmingly respectful in manner, all the rest of the day.
Everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, "Mrs. John Brooke"; whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.
chapter 22 Pleasant Meadows
Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and, in time, with dolls' sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white hands cooking delicate messes for the "dear"; while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.
As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honour of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impractical, and would have had bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah "felt in her bones" that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them; then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's gift - a soft crimson merino wrapper - was borne in triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for, like elves, they had worked by night, and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow-maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of new music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips, on a pink paper streamer:
THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH
God bless you, dear Queen Bess!
May nothing you dismay,
But health and peace and happiness
Be yours, this Christmas Day.
Here's fruit to feed our busy bee,
And flowers for her nose;
Here's music for her pianee,
An Afghan for her toes.
A portrait of Joanna, see,
By Raphael No. 2,
Who laboured with great industry
To make it fair and true.
Accept a ribbon red, I beg,
For Madam Purrer's tail;
And ice-cream made by lovely Peg -
A Mont Blanc in a pail.
Their dearest love, my makers laid
Within my breast of snow:
Accept it, and the Alpine maid,
From Laurie and from Jo.
How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them!
"I'm so full of happiness, that, if Father was only here, I couldn't hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment, as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the "Jungfrau" had sent her.
"So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Undine and Sintram.
"I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame.
"Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it.
"How can I be otherwise?" said Mrs. March, gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed the broach made of grey and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast. Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlour door, and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the March family."
Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word. Mrs. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china-closet; Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush! remember Beth!"
But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold - joy put strength into the feeble limbs - and Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened just after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past, and leaving only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big arm-chair, and talking hard.
Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't have something to eat. Jo saw and understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, "I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!"
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in one's mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned out well; which was a mercy, Hannah said, "For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin' of it in a cloth."
Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke - at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy-chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sang songs, "reminisced", as the old folk say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and, as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
"Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things. "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
"I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes.
"I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who sat on her father's knee.
"Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.
"How do you know? Did Mother tell you?" asked Jo.
"Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several discoveries today."
"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.
"Here is one!" and taking up the hand which lay on the ann of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm.
"I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now - for in these seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering has been made of vanity; this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters; and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much goodwill went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away."
If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labour, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand, and the approving smile he gave her.
"What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so hard, and been so very, very good to me," said Beth, in her father's ear. He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her brown face.
"In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the "son Jo" whom I left a year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale, just now, with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful, tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars which my good girl sent me."
Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight, as she received her father's praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
"Now, Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
"There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be," began their father cheerfully; but recollecting how nearly he had lot her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God."
After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair:
"I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on everyone with patience and good-humour. I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay figures. I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter, with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."
"What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring.
"I read in Pilgrim's Progress today, how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth; adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms, and went slowly to the instrument, "It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the pilgrims heard. I made the music for Father, because he likes the verses."
So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and, in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sung to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her:
"He that is down need fear no fall,
He that is low no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
"I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much;
And, Lord! contentment still I crave,
Because thou savest such.
"Fullness to them a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage;
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age!"
chapter 23 Aunt March Settles The Question
Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then to "peek at the dear man", nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall; Meg was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and coloured when John's name was mentioned; Amy said, `Everyone seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,' and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbours didn't run over as usual.
Laurie went by in the afternoon, and, seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down upon one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon; and when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
`What does the goose mean?' said Meg, laughing, and trying to look unconscious.
`He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't it?' answered Jo, scornfully.
`Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true'; but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. `Please don't plague me, Jo; I've told you I don't care much about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before.'
`We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does Mother; you are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly,' said Jo, pettishly.
`I can't say or do anything till he speaks, and he won't, because Father said I was too young,' began Meg, bending over her work, with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point.
`If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided No.'
`I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares; there's no knowing what may happen, and I wish to be prepared.'
Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty colour varying in her cheeks.
`Would you mind telling me what you'd say?' asked Jo, more respectfully.
`Not at all; you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidante, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort.'
`Don't mean to have any; it's fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself,' said Jo, looking alarmed at the thought.
`I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you.' Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
`I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man,' said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
`Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, `Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at present; so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were."'
`Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings.'
`No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity.'
Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to sew as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and, when someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but hospitable.
`Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella - that is, to see how your father finds himself today,' said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eye went from one tell-tale face to the other.
`It's very well, he's in the rack, I'll get him, and tell it you are here,' and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle towards the door, murmuring, `Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her.'
`Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?' and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully: `How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it.'
`Shall I tell you how?' asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes, that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
`Oh no, please don't - I'd rather not,' she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
`I won't trouble you, I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear,' added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it; she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, `I don't know,' so softly, that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said, in his most persuasive tone, `Will you try and find out? I want to know so much; for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not.'
`I'm too young,' faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
`I'll wait; and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?'
`Not if I chose to learn it, but--'
`Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German,' broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face, as he bent to look into it.
His tone was properly beseeching; but, stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her; Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and, not knowing what to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, `I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!'
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
`Do you really mean that?' he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.
`Yes, I do; I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn't; it's too soon and I'd rather not.'
`Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait, and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you.'
`Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't,' said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power. He was grave and silent now; and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired; but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room, as they did; he just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of her. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew; for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and, hearing of Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study.
`Bless me, what's all this?' cried the old lady, with a rap of her cane, as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.
`It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!' stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
`That's evident,' returned Aunt March, sitting down. `But what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is,' with another rap.
`We were merely talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella,' began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.
`Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?' cried Aunt March, looking scandalized.
`Hush! he'll hear. Shan't I call Mother?' said Meg, much troubled.
`Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl,' said the old lady, impressively.
Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared she couldn't think of it; but as she was peremptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and, being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit.
`I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to anyone you like,' she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.
`Highty tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, miss? You'll be sorry for it, by and by, when you've tried love in a cottage, and found it a failure.'
`It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses,' retorted Meg.
Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent - so glad to defend John, and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and, after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying, as mildly as she could, `Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable, and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well, and help your family; it's your duty to make a rich match, and it ought to be impressed upon you.'
`Father and Mother don't think so; they like John, though he is poor.'
`Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than two babies.'
`I'm glad of it,' cried Meg, stoutly.
Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture, `This Rook is poor, and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?'
`No, but he has many warm friends.'
`You can't live on friends; try it, and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?'
`Not yet; Mr. Laurence is going to help him.'
`That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow, and not to be depended upon. So you intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg.'
`I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise; he's got heaps of talent; he's willing to work, and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly,' said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
`He knows you have got rich relations, child; that's the secret of his liking, I suspect.'
`Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so,' cried Meg, indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's suspicions. `My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than I would. We are willing to work, and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far and I know I shall be with him, because he loves me, and I--'
Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind; that she had told "her John" to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
`Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You are a wilful child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop; I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are married; your Mr. Book's friends must take care of you. I've done with you for ever.'
And, slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her; for, when left alone, Meg stood a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said, all in one breath, `I couldn't help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little bit.'
`I didn't know how much till she abused you,' began Meg.
`And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?'
Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself for ever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, `Yes, John,' and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat.
Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parlour door, and, hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled, with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, `She has sent him away as we planned, and that affair is settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it.'
But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going to exult over a fallen enemy, and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strong-minded sister enthroned upon his knee, and wearing an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp as if a cold shower-bath had suddenly fallen upon her - for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy; but "that man", as Jo called him, actually laughed, and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, `Sister Jo, congratulate us!' That was adding insult to injury - it was altogether too much - and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically, as she burst into the room:
`Oh, do somebody go down quick; John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!'
Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed; and, casting herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously, as she told the awful news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them; so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.
Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlour that afternoon, but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.
The tea-bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as "unworldly as a pair of babies". No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there.
`You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?' said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in the sketch she was planning to make.
`No, I'm sure I can't. Flow much has happened since I said that! It seems a year ago,' answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream, lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.
`The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun,' said Mrs. March. `In most families there comes, now and then, a year full of events; this has been such a one, but it ends well after all.'
`Hope the next will end better,' muttered Jo, who found it very hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face; for Jo loved a few persons very dearly, and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way.
`I hope the third year from this will end better; I mean it shall, if I live to work out my plans,' said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now.
`Doesn't it seem very long to wait?' asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding.
`I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me,' answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face, never seen there before.
`You have only to wait; I have to do the work,' said John, beginning his labours by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself, with an air of relief, as the front door banged, `Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have a little sensible conversation.' But Jo was mistaken; for Laurie came prancing in flowing with spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for "Mrs. John Brooke", and evidently labouring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management. `I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does; for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done, though the sky falls,' said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations.
`Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future, and invite you to my wedding on the spot,' answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.
`I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth; for the sight of Jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don't look festive, ma'am; what's the matter?' asked Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlour, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence.
`I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it,' said Jo, solemnly. `You can't know how hard it is for me to give up Meg,' she continued, with a little quiver in her voice.
`You don't give her up. You only go halves,' said Laurie, consolingly.
`It never can be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend,' sighed Jo.
`You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know; but I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life; upon my word I will!' and Laurie meant what he said.
`I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged; you are always a great comfort to me, Teddy,' returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands.
`Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right, you see. Meg is happy; Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately; grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad, or some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?'
`I rather think it would; but there's no knowing what may happen in three years,' said Jo, thoughtfully.
`That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward and see where we shall all be then? I do,' returned Laurie.
`I think not, for I might see something sad; and everyone looks so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved'; and Jo's eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.
Father and Mother sat together, quietly re-living the first
chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favourite low seat, with the grave, quiet look which best became her; and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them both.
So grouped, the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.
Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given to the first act of the domestic drama called "Little Women"
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