Little Women
“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 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 Evelina 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
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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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 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
spatted 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.”
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any letter from
Father, girls?” and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, “Won’t some of
you come for a drive? I’ve been working away at mathematics till my
head is in a muddle, and I’m going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.
It’s a dull day, but the air isn’t bad, and I’m going to take Brooke
home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth
will go, won’t you?”
“Of course we will.”
“Much obliged, but I’m busy.” And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for
she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not
to drive too often with the young gentleman.
“We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away to wash
her hands.
“Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie, leaning over
Mrs. March’s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave
her.
“No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind, dear.
It’s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn’t been. Father is as
regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on the way, perhaps.”
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a
letter.
“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said, handling it
as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
At the word ‘telegraph’, Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it
contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little
paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for
water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a
frightened voice...
Mrs. March:
Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
S. HALE
Blank Hospital, Washington.
How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the
day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to
change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the
happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.
Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and
stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never
forgot, “I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children,
children, help me to bear it!”
For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the
room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help,
and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first
to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good
example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.
“The Lord keep the dear man! I won’t waste no time a-cryin’, but git
your things ready right away, mum,” she said heartily, as she wiped her
face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her
own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.
“She’s right, there’s no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me
think.”
They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking
pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.
“Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected her
thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.
“Here, ma’am. Oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying from
the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow
was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early
in the morning. I’ll take that.”
“What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,” he
said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
“Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and paper.”
Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew
the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad
journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to
add a little to the sum for her father.
“Now go, dear, but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.
There is no need of that.”
Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later
Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his
life.
“Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can’t come. On the way
get these things. I’ll put them down, they’ll be needed and I must go
prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and
ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I’m not too proud
to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell
Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my
things, for I’m half bewildered.”
Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the
poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little
while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust
of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if
the paper had been an evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the
kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest
promises of protection for the girls during the mother’s absence, which
comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn’t offer, from his
own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible.
Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman’s undertaking the long
journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it,
for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy
eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he’d be
back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran
through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea
in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind,
quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. “I
came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has
commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction
to be of service to her there.”
Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg
put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke
would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling
one of time and comfort which he was about to take.