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 martial 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
moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of."
[Illustration: "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears]
"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 your 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 toward 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 any one," began Jo reluctantly.
"That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you
soft-hearted 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 have
gladly 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.
[Illustration: He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path]
"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 some one 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 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-humoredly. "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 key-hole, to be submissive, decorous,
and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked
again, she left the note to do its work, and 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.
Every one 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.
[Illustration: Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day]
XXII.
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 doll's 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 honor of this unusually merry
Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had
bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had 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 labored 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."
[Illustration: The Jungfrau]
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 brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which
the girls had just fastened on her breast.
Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the
delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour
after every one had said they were so happy they could only hold one
drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor 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 every one 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. Mr. 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 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 wine and
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
honey-pot. 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, sung songs, "reminisced," as the old folks 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 to-day."
"Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him.
"Here is one;" and taking up the hand which lay on the arm 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 good-will 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 labor, 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_ lost 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 to-night, and has waited
on every one with patience and good-humor. 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' to-day, 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.
"Fulness to them a burden is,
That go on pilgrimage;
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age!"
XXIII.
AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION.
[Illustration: Popping in her head now and then]