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 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.
[Illustration: Hurrah for Miss March]
"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 any one
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 sha'n'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 any one; mind that."
"I didn't promise."
"That was understood, and I trusted you."
"Well, I won't for the present, any way; 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 any one 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 hair-pins 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.
[Illustration: Jo darted away]
"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
some one did pass, 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 hair-pins," 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 stop 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' any one," 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 woe-begone
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 any one but her.
"It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy,
who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a
very becoming way,--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.
[Illustration: Jo 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 favorite
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! O my Jo, I _am_ so proud!" and Beth ran 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, any one would pay. So I let him have the two
stories, and to-day 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 toward that
happy end.
XV.
A TELEGRAM.
[Illustration: November is the most disagreeable month in the year]
"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 every one who
has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something, in a blaze
of splendor and elegance."
"People don't have fortunes left them in that style now-a-days; men have
to work, and women to marry for money. It's a dreadfully 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
spatted 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.
[Illustration: One of them horrid telegraph things]
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 down stairs 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. O 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 quietly in her room for a little
while, and let them work. Every one 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.
[Illustration: 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 very 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, and 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 trifling
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 some one 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 parlor, 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 needle-work, 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!" "O 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 every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo
assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive any one 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 ninepence. 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.