Current Shareware 1994 January/SHAR194.ISO/textfile/lilwomen.zip/CHPT14.TXT

Text File | 1993-06-13 | 19KB | 479 lines

                             CHAPTER FOURTEEN

     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, promen-
aded 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
ernest her work had been.  Jo's desk up here was an old tin
kitchen which hung against the wall.  It 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 on 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, 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 some-
times 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 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 and discontented, as you some-
times 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 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're 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, remember-
ing 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 Shake-
speare 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 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 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 Atalanta came panting up with
flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatis-
faction 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 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' anyone," observed Meg, walking
on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whisper-
ing, 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 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 disapprov-
ing 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 that
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 cond-
escension.

     "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
critisized 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 th `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 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 mad 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
EVILINA 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 be-
ginners 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.

                   END OF CHAPTER FOURTEEN