Little Women - Louisa May Alcott (the beach read .TXT) 📗

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 Shakespeare, 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 dissatisfaction 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 dishevelled 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, whispering, 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 woebegone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to 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