Classics Mutilated (7 page)

"They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather." 

"No, dear. Run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't stir." 

So Meg reclined, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured a cup of coffee, which she immediately spilled on her gloves. 

"Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo. 

"May I help?" inquired a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a full cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. 

"I was getting something for Meg, who is terribly tired, and someone shook me, and here I am in a sorry state," answered Jo, glancing dismally at the coffee-colored glove. The warm fluid was scalding her hand, and she had no choice but to remove the glove, thus exposing her scarred hand and wrist.

"Oh, you poor dear," Laurie cried, taking her hand in his and touching it with a soothing caress that sent electricity through her. "You've gone and hurt yourself. Here. Come with me."

Before Jo could say a word, he whisked her along the hallway away from the crowd. When they stopped, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small black box. Upon closer inspection, Jo noted several small indentations on the side and a tiny green light, which Laurie directed at her hand. After he pressed a small button on the side of the box, a faint humming sound filled the air, and a cooling sensation embraced her hand and wrist like an unseen glove. 

"Whatever are you doing?" Jo asked as the cool, prickling sensation ran up her hand and forearm. Ignoring her inquiry, Laurie attended to his business for a whispered count of ten, and then said simply, "That should suffice."

He replaced the small device into his jacket pocket and smiled at her.

"Your hand should feel better soon," he said, walking with her back to the dining table. "What do you say we bring a cup of coffee to your sister?"

"Oh—yes. Thank you. I would offer to take it myself, but I am sure I would get into another scrape." 

Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second installment of coffee for Jo, and was so obliging that even critical Meg pronounced him a "nice boy." Jo asked if he could use that curious device to aid her sister's twisted ankle, but he looked at her, silently scolding her as he shook his head, no. 

While Meg rested her foot, they had a merry time and were in the midst of a game of
Buzz
with two or three other young people, who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared in the doorway. Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with a brief exclamation of pain. 

"Hush! Don't say anything about it," she whispered to Jo, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. 

Hannah's expression remained perfectly neutral when her eyes met Laurie's. Jo was sure something unspoken passed between their maid and her new friend, but for the life of her she couldn't tell what. Meg returned, limping, and Jo was at her wit's end until she decided to take things into her own hands. She ran out and found a servant and asked if he could provide them with a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood, and Jo was looking around for help when Laurie, who apparently had heard her request, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him. 

"It's so early. You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo. 

"I always leave early. I do, truly. I find that I tire easily at such events." 

Jo remembered the vigor with which he had danced and doubted the veracity of his claim, but she was pleased to let him take her sister and her home. "It's on my way," he added, "and, you know, it is supposed to snow, they say." 

That settled it, and Jo gratefully accepted. Hannah hated the snow as much as a cat does, so she agreed although Jo caught another unspoken glance pass between Hannah and Laurie, which filled her with curiosity. 

Once settled in the carriage, they rolled away feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie rode on the box with the driver so Meg could keep her foot up on the seat next to Hannah. 

"I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair and making herself comfortable. 

"I did," said Meg, "until I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me and asked me to spend a week with her family in Boston. She is going in the spring when the opera comes to the city. It will be perfectly splendid if Marmee will let me go." 

"I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from," said Jo. "Was he nice?" 

"Oh, quite. But his hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite." 

"He looked like a grasshopper having a fit. Laurie and I couldn't help but laugh. Did you hear us?" 

"No, but it was very rude to laugh. What were you about all that time, hiding away there? It's unladylike." 

Jo told her adventures but failed to mention the small act of healing Laurie had accomplished on her injured hand. She thrilled at the memory of his touch when he held her hand to inspect the burn. Before they knew it, they were home. With many thanks, they said good night to Laurie and crept in, hoping to disturb no one. 

"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg as her sister came tramping through the hall wearing heavy rubber boots, an old sack, and a hood. She had a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. 

"Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

"I should think it's cold and dreary enough outside, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver. 

"Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find one." 

With Beth watching from the shadows, Meg went back to toasting her feet and reading
Ivanhoe
while Jo went outside to dig a path in the snow with great energy. Her shovel soon cleared a path all round the garden for Amy to walk in when the sun came out. Father would be pleased to see such industry. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of Concord, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two properties. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the grape vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of creature comfort, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. 

Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, thought Jo, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face smiled at the window, and few people went in and out except for the old gentleman and his grandson, Laurie. 

To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed an enchanted palace full of remarkable splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories and to know the Laurence boy. Talking with him at the party had only enhanced his attraction. He had only recently arrived to reside with his grandfather. The story, as Jo had heard it, was that he had studied in Europe following the death of his parents, although he had not mentioned such an event last night. 

Since the party, Jo had been more eager than ever to know him, and she had planned ways of making friends with him, but she had not seen him outside today, and she began to think he may have gone away. Earlier in the day, though, she had spied a pale face in an upper window, looking wistfully down into their yard. 

"That boy is suffering from a lack of society and fun," she said to herself. "He keeps himself shut up all day as if he's afraid of the sun. He needs somebody young and lively to associate with. I've a mind to go over and tell him so!" 

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her peculiar performances. The plan of "going over there" was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She waited to see Mr. Laurence drive off, and then she sallied forth to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. 

All was quiet. The curtains were down at the lower windows, and the servants were out of sight. Nothing human was visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand in an upper window. 

"Poor boy," thought Jo. "All alone on this dismal day. It's a shame. I'll toss up a snowball and make him look at me, and then say a kind word." 

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless expression in an instant as the big eyes brightened and the wide mouth smiled. Jo waved, laughing as she flourished her shovel and called out— 

"How do you do? Are you sick?" 

Up went the window sash, and Laurie croaked out as hoarsely as a raven, "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold since the night of the party and have been shut up." 

"I'm sorry to hear that. What do you for amusement?" 

"Nothing. It's as dull as tombs up here." 

"Don't you read?" 

"Not much. Grandfather won't let me." 

"Can't somebody read to you?" 

"No one will." 

"Have someone come and see you, then." 

"There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." 

"Isn't there some nice girl who'd read to you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse." 

"I don't know any." 

"You know me," said Jo. She started to laugh but then stopped. 

"So I do," cried Laurie. "Will you come up, please?" 

"I'm not quiet
or
nice, but I'll come up if Mother will allow. I'll ask. Shut the window, like a good boy. You'll catch your death. Wait until I come." 

With that, Jo shouldered her shovel like a musket and marched into the house. Laurie was in a rush of excitement at the idea of having company, and he flew about to get ready, tidying up his room, which in spite of half a dozen servants was anything but neat. 

Presently there came a loud ring at the door and then a decided voice, asking for "Master Laurie." A surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. 

"Show her up, please. It's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared looking rosy and quite at ease with a covered dish in her gloved hands. 

"Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sends her love and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blancmange. She makes it very nicely." 

"That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure as Jo uncovered the dish and showed the blancmange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. 

"Tell the girl to put it away for your tea," said Jo. "It's so simple you can eat it and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is." 

"It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are so lazy, and I dare say I don't know how to make them mind." 

"I'll straighten it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped. Now then, you're fixed." 

And so he was, for, as she talked, Jo had whisked about the room putting things into place which, when done, gave quite a different air to the room. She noticed a few objects and artifacts that struck her as unique, but she had the manners not to remark on them. One, a photograph of a lovely woman with long, black hair, seemed to be three-dimensional, to which Jo ascribed a trick of the eye. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction. 

"How kind you are," he said graciously. "Yes, that's exactly what it needed. Now, please take the big chair, and let me do something to amuse you." 

"I came to amuse you," Jo said, habitually placing her gloved hands behind her back to hide the stains. "Shall I read aloud?" She looked affectionately toward some inviting books in a case nearby. Several titles, written on the spines, appeared to be in a language unfamiliar to her, perhaps Arabic or Hindoo, she thought.

"Thank you, but I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. 

"Not a bit. I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth used to say I never know when to stop." 

"The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, but I don't believe I have met or seen your sister Beth."

"Beth is—" began Jo, but she fell silent, not sure how to proceed until she ended with a feeble, "We speak very little of her." 

Laurie colored up but said frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone upstairs, I can't help but look over at your house. You always seem to be having such grand times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to pull the curtain at the window where the flowers are, and when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a living picture book to see you all gathered around with your mother. Her face looks so sweet behind the flowers. I can't help watching. I haven't got any mother, you know."

"I'm so sorry," replied Jo. "I didn't know. Do you care to tell me what happened?"

"She was from … Italy. When she died, my father, being unable to raise me on his own because his business concerns take him far and wide, sent me to Concord to live with my grandfather until I begin college."

Laurie poked at the fire to hide a slight twitching of the upper lip and a certain moistness in his eyes that he could not control. 

The solitary, yearning look in his eyes went straight to Jo's heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was ill and lonely, and she was grateful for how rich she truly was in home and true happiness. She gladly wished to share it with him. Her face was very friendly, and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said—