Chapter 9
Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm September, wondering what his neighbours were about.
“What in the world are those girls about now?” thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes. Each wore a large flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff; Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a dipper, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, and out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and the river.
Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he waited for them to appear; but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines, or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.
“Here’s landscape!” thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes.
It was rather a pretty picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them—the wind lifting their hair and cooling their cheeks. Meg sat upon her cushion sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy’s face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go, yet lingering, because home seemed lonely. He stood so still that a squirrel ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly, and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a smile.
“May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?” he asked, advancing slowly.
Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her, and said, “Of course you may. We should have asked you before only we thought you wouldn’t care for such a girl’s game.”
“I always like your games; but if Meg doesn’t want me, I’ll go away.”
“I’ve no objection, of you do something; it’s against the rule to be idle here,” replied Meg.
“Much obliged; I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stop a bit, for it’s as dull as the desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once?”
“Finish this story while I set my heel,” said Jo, handing him the book.
Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself agreeable; 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 which amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them Hannah had put the tea to ‘draw,’ and they would just have time to get home to supper.
“May I come again?” asked Laurie.
“Yes, if you are good,” said Meg smiling.
“I’ll try.”
The October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in at 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 proud of his whiskers, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled. When she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down the pen, exclaiming—“There, I’ve done my best! If this doesn’t suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better.”
Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript through making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it with a smart ribbon, and sat looking at it with a sober expression, which showed how earnest her work had been. Jo’s desk was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs.
She put on her hat and jacket and, goint to the back entry window, got out upon the roof at a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town.
In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face, and the appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal. 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 bad time?”
“Not very.”
“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.
“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 gymnasium and I was taking a lesson in fencing.”
“I am 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 bent and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him, 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.”
“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 hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for Jo came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
“I wish I were a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are,” said Jo, dropping down under a maple-tree.
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 lady-like in her state and festive suit, for she had been making calls.
For a week or two Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters got 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 woebegone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and them to kiss her; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo had 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 girls? She never will behave like a young lady,” sighed Meg.
In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and started to read.
“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg.
“Nothing but a story! Don’t amount to much, I guess,” returned Jo.
“You’d better read it aloud; that will amuse us, and keep you out of mischief,” said Amy.
“What’s the name?” asked Beth.
“The Rival Painters.”
“That sounds well; read it,” said Meg.
With a loud ‘hem’” Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romatic, 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 romantic part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favourite names; isn’t that queer?” said Meg.
“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! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to hug her sister.
