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,cm 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 bandboxescn 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 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 newspaperman, 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 plummyco 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 Atalantacp 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, 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 disheveled 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 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 sometime 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 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 anyone 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.
“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! Oh, 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 criticized 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 sang 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 Evelinacq than she did over her “Rival Painters.”cr 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 toward that happy end.
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 frostbitten 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 splendor 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 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 frostbitten garden again; Jo groaned and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spattedcs 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.”