Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (27 page)

“Bless me! How old I shall be—twenty-seven!” exclaimed Meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.

“You and I will 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 anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I’d do it tomorrow.”

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 anyone, 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.”

“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,”
^cj
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,
^ck
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.”

14

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
^cl
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 downstairs, 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 anyone 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 doorway, 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 maneuver 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 doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, “It’s like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she’ll need someone to help her home.”

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,
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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
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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?”