Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
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 practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants 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 dipper, 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 he leaped
the fence and ran after them. 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 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
goodnatured already.
It was rather a 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 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, 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 its harvesting, ran down 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 don't want
me, I'll go away."
"I've no objection, if you do something; it's against
the rule 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 an
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, mum, 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, it was me; 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 across
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
hill-tops; 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
some time; 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 sweet 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 travelling 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 moved 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 every one
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 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 lots of 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 them 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 shall 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 silk,
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 any one left to
stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow."
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 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 mother 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 any one, 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 Brooke."
"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 mean 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 which 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 you 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 Scotch-men 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."