Chapter 6
“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
“Never mind; little girls shouldn’t ask questions,” returned Jo sharply.
“I know! I know! You’re going to the theatre to see the Seven Castles!” she cried; adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for mother said I might see it; and I’ve got my rag-money.”
“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly. “Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”
“I don’t like that half so well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good!” pleaded Amy.
Jo’s tone and manner angered Amy who began to put her boots on, saying, “I shall; Meg says I may; and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.”
You will not stir; so you may just stay where you are,” scolded Jo.
Siting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing.
They had a charming times, for The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake was as wonderful as heart could wish. But Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy.
When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlour. She assumed an injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s first look was towards the bureau; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down, on the floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags and boxes, Jo assumed that Amy had forgotten and forgiven her wrong-doings.
But Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to plume herself on her superior virtue. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and nothing went well that day.
“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating,” said Jo to herself, and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation, “There! She promised I should go next time. But it is of no use asking such a cross-patch to take me.”
“Don’t say that; you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, it you try her at the right minute,” said Meg, “Go after them; don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again.”
“I’ll try,” said Amy; and she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill.
I was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he was skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
“I’ll go to the first bend, and see if it’s all right, before we begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet, and blowing her fingers, she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back, “Keep near the shore; it isn’t safe in the middle.”
Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harbouring said in her ear, “No matter whether she heard or not; let her take care of herself.”
Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out towards the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a moment Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden crash of rotten ice, and the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice had gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue above the black water.
Somehow Laurie lying flat held Amy up by his arms and got her out.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken, but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised. When Amy was asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.
“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head.
“Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think; you were so sensible in covering and setting her home quickly.”
“Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault.” Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened.
Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
“I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn’t forgive her, and today, if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I have been so wicked?” said Jo half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered over the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged each other close, and everything was forgotten and forgiven in one hearty kiss.
