CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock
one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were
about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his
moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory,
and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather
made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr.
Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by
practicing half the afternoon, frightened the maidservants half
out of their wits by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs
was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman about
some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into
his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general,
till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself.
Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above
him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining
himself tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world,
when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash.
Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches
coming out, as if bound on some expedition.
"What in the world are those girls about now?" thought
Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there
was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his
neighbors. 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 basket, and Amy a portfolio. All
walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate,
and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.
"Well, that's cool," said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic
and never ask me! They can't be going in the boat, for they
haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it. I'll take it to them,
and see what's going on."
Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time
to find one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last
discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight
when leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way
to the boathouse, 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
a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp
of the crickets.
"Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the
bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.
It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat
together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over
them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot
cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs
as if these were no strangers but old friends. 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 with 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 away because uninvited, yet lingering because home seemed very
lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his
restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with it's
harvesting, ran dawn a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly
and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied
the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring
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 defiantly and
said at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before,
only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."
"I always like your games, but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll
go away."
"I've no objection, if you do something. It's against the
rules to be idle here," replied Meg gravely but graciously.
"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? Bring on your bears.
I'm ready." And Laurie sat down with a submissive expression
delightful to behold.
"Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him
the book.
"Yes'm." was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to
prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the ‘Busy Bee
Society'.
The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he
ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
"Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive
and charming institution is a new one?"
"Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters.
"He'll laugh," said Amy warningly.
"Who cares?" said Jo.
"I guess he'll like it," added Beth.
"Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell
away, Jo, and don't be afraid."
"The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to
play Pilgrim's Progress, and we have been going on with it in
earnest, all winter and summer."
"Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely.
"Who told you?" demanded Jo.
"Spirits."
"No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were
all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't
scold, Jo," said Beth meekly.
"You can't keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now."
"Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her
work, looking a trifle displeased.
"Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well,
we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task
and worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the
stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."
"Yes, I should think so," and Laurie thought regretfully of
his own idle days.
"Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so
we bring our work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we
bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to
climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We
call this hill the Delectable Mountain, for we can look far away
and see the country where we hope to live some time."
Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an
opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, blue river,
the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the
great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The
sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an
autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops,
and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks
that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City.
"How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick
to see and feel beauty of any kind.
"It's often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the
same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it.
"Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime--the
real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking.
It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real,
and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly.
"There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go,
by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered Meg with her sweetest voice.
"It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away
at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."
"You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that,"
said Jo. "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb
and wait, and maybe never get in after all."
"you'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall
have to do a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your
Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me,
won't you, Beth?"
Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend, but
she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds,
"If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I
think they will get in, for I don't believe there are any locks
on that door or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is
as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their
hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river.
"Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we
make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after
a little pause.
"I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which
I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the
squirrel who had betrayed him.
"You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked
Meg.
"If I tell mine, will you tell yours?"
"Yes, if the girls will too."
"We will. Now, Laurie."
"After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like
to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I'm
to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear
me. And I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just
enjoy myself and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle.
What's yours, Meg?"
Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and
waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats,
while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all
sorts of luxurious things--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome
furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be
mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants,
so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn't
be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly."
"Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked
Laurie slyly.
"I said ‘pleasant people', you know," And Meg carefully tied
up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
"Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband
and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't
be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet,
and rather scorned romance, except in books.
"You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in
yours," answered Meg petulantly.
"Wouldn't I though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds,
rooms piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand,
so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to
do something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic
or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know
what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all
some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous,
that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."
"Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and
help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly.
"Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie.
"Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I
only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else."
"I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an
artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best
artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire.
"We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but
Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect.
I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie,
chewing grass like a meditative calf.
"I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can
unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously.
"I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it.
Hang college!" muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh.
"Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil.
"I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly.
"Yes, you have," said Laurie at once.
"Where?"
"In your face."
"Nonsense, that's of no use."
"Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having,"
replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little
secret which he fancied he knew.
Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and
looked across the river with the same expectant expression which
Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.
"If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how
many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than
now," said Jo, always ready with a plan.
"Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg,
who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
"You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and
Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo.
"I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that
time, but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall dawdle, Jo."
"You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is
sure you'll work splendidly."
"Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!" cried
Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to
please Grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain,
you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he
was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and sild and spices, and
every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon
they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to
satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off
from the business. But he's set, and I've got to do just as he did,
unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there
was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it tomorrow."
Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat
into execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up
very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's
hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the
world for himself.
"I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never
come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose
imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and
whose sympathy was excited by what she called ‘Teddy's Wrongs'.
"That's not right, Jo. You mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie
mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your
grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her most maternal tone.
"Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him,
I'm sure he won't be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there
is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive
yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or
fret, but do your duty and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke
has, by being respected and loved."
"What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the
good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the
conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak.
"Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good
care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as
tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave her. And how
he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never
tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he
can be."
"So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg
paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like
Grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and
to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him.
Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him,
asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly
way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for
days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever
I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Booke."
"Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out,"
said Meg sharply.
"How do you know I do, Miss?"
"I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you
have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you
have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted
to go back and do his work better."
"Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and
bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as
he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."
"We haven't. Don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said
anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and
what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg,
much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her
careless speech.
"I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his ‘high and mighty'
air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.
"Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have
fair weather for him to report."
"Please don't be offended. I didn't meant to preach or tell
tales or be silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a
feeling which you'd be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to
us, we feel as if you were our brother and say just what we think.
Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a
gesture both affectionate and timid.
Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind
little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven. I'm
cross and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you
tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy
sometimes. I thank you all the same."
Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as
agreeable as possible, 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 those amiable creatures having strolled
up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that
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 your are good, and love your book, as the boys in
the primer are told to do," said Meg, smiling.
"i'll try."
"Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do.
There's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers
like a big blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.
That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight,
Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the
little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit,
and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand,
thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much.
Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to
himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll
let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he
needs me, for I am all he has."