September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors 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 stable-man
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 the 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 neighbors. 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 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 boat-house, he
waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to
take an observation. A grove 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 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.
[Illustration: It was rather a pretty little picture]
"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 favor 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,' and 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
days.
"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 plowed with
the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the
hill-tops; 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 favorite 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 favorite 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 every one love me
dearly."
[Illustration: Waved a brake before her face]
"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_ favorite 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 colored 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 shall 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 the 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 any one left to stay with the old
gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."
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 any one, 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 do 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."
[Illustration: I see him bow and smile]
"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 thermometer, 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 gray 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."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Jo was very busy]
XIV.
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 oldest son, a fine 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 down stairs, 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 any one 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 door-way, 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
manœuvre she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a
black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a 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 moment 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 door-way, saying, with a smile and a shiver,--
"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some
one to help her home."
In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs 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 any one 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
straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only
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."