Chapter 21

CHAPTER XXI.

LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE.

JO'S face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bid her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her.

She was quite right; for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery, than he set himself to finding it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened and scolded;

affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth

from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care;

and, at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself

that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling

indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's

confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper

retaliation for the slight.

Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter,

and was absorbed in preparations for her father's

return; but all of a sudden a change seemed to come

over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike

herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when

looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing

with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her

mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite

well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.

"She feels it in the air—love, I mean—and she's

going very fast. She's got most of the symptoms, is

twittery and cross, don't eat, lies awake, and mopes

in corners. I caught her singing that song about 'the

silver-voiced brook,' and once she said 'John,' as you

do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever

shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures,

however violent.

"Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and

patient, and father's coming will settle everything,"

replied her mother.

"Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How

odd! Teddy never seals mine," said Jo, next day, as

she distributed the contents of the little post-office.

Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see

her staring at her note, with a frightened face.

"My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running

to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done

the mischief.

"It's all a mistake—he didn't send it—oh, Jo, how

could you do it?" and Meg hid her face in her hands,

crying as if her heart was quite broken.

"Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking

about?" cried Jo, bewildered.

Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled

a crumpled note from her pocket, and threw it at Jo,

saying, reproachfully,—

"You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How

could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?"

Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were

reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.

"My Dearest Margaret,—

"I can no longer restrain my passion, and must

know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your

parents yet, but I think they would consent if they

knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence

will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet

girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say

nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of

hope through Laurie to

"Your devoted

"John."

"Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to

pay me for keeping my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over to beg pardon,"

cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But

her mother held her back, saying, with a look she

seldom wore,—

"Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have

played so many pranks, that I am afraid you have had

a hand in this."

"On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw

that note before, and don't know anything about it, as

true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly, that they believed

her. "If I had taken a part in it I'd have done it

better than this, and have written a sensible note. I

should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't

write such stuff as that," she added, scornfully tossing

down the paper.

"It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it

with the note in her hand.

"Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March,

quickly.

"Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again,

overcome with shame.

"Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked

boy over to explain, and be lectured. I can't rest till

I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the door again.

"Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I

thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story,"

commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping

hold of Jo, lest she should fly off.

"I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't

look as if he knew anything about it," began Meg,

without looking up. "I was worried at first, and

meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept

my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I

liked to think no one knew; and, while I was deciding

what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have

such things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for

my silliness now; I never can look him in the face

again."

"What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March.

"I only said I was too young to do anything about

it yet; that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and

he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his

kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more,

for a long while."

Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped

her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh,—

"You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was

a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he

say to that?"

"He writes in a different way entirely; telling me

that he never sent any love-letter at all, and is very

sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such

liberties with our names. It's very kind and

respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"

Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image

of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling

Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught

up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely,

said, decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw

either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps

yours to crow over me with, because I wouldn't tell

him my secret."

"Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should have done," said

Meg, warningly.

"Bless you, child! mother told me."

"That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go

and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom,

and put a stop to such pranks at once."

Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr.

Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your

own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can

make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite

free for the present?"

"I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to

have anything to do with lovers for a long while,—perhaps never," answered Meg, petulantly. "If John

doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell

him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I

won't be deceived and plagued, and made a fool of,—it's a shame!"

Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused,

and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs.

March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and

great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's

step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study,

and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had

not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't

come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's

face, and stood twirling his hat with a guilty air,

which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but

chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel,

having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The

sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the

girls never knew.

When they were called in, Laurie was standing by

their mother with such a penitent face, that Jo forgave

him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the

fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was

much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew

nothing of the joke.

"I'll never tell him to my dying day,—wild horses

shan't drag it out of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg,

and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I

am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.

"I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to

do. I didn't think you could be so sly and malicious,

Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly

confusion under a gravely reproachful air.

"It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve

to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though,

won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands together,

with such an imploring gesture, and rolled up his eyes

in such a meekly repentant way, as he spoke in his

irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to

frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior.

Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face

relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she

heard him declare that he would atone for his sins

by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a

worm before the injured damsel.

Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her

heart against him, and succeeding only in primming

up her face into an expression of entire

disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and

turned his back on her till the others were done with

him, when he made her a low bow, and walked off

without a word.

As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been

more forgiving; and, when Meg and her mother

went up stairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy.

After resisting for some time, she yielded to the

impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to

the big house.

"Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid,

who was coming down stairs.

"Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet."

"Why not; is he ill?"

"La, no, miss! but he's had a scene with Mr.

Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something,

which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh

him."

"Where is Laurie?"

"Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though

I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become

of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat

it."

"I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid

of either of them."

Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of

Laurie's little study.

"Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!"

called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone.

Jo immediately pounded again; the door flew open,

and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from

his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a

contrite expression, and, going artistically down upon her

knees, said, meekly, "Please forgive me for being so

cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I

have."

"It's all right; get up, and don't be a goose, Jo,"

was the cavalier reply to her petition.

"Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the

matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind."

"I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled

Laurie, indignantly.

"Who did it?" demanded Jo.

"Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd

have—" and the injured youth finished his sentence

by an energetic gesture of the right arm.

"That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't

mind," said Jo, soothingly.

"Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no

man to shake me."

"I don't think any one would care to try it, if you

looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now.

Why were you treated so?"

"Just because I wouldn't say what your mother

wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course

I wasn't going to break my word."

"Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other

way?"

"No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and

nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the

scrape, if I could, without bringing Meg in. As I

couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry,

and bolted, for fear I should forget myself."

"It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down

and make up. I'll help you."

"Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured

and pummelled by every one, just for a bit of a frolic.

I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man;

but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong."

"He didn't know that."

"He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a

baby. It's no use, Jo; he's got to learn that I'm able

to take care of myself, and don't need any one's

apronstring to hold on by."

"What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How

do you mean to settle this affair?"

"Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me

when I say I can't tell him what the row's about."

"Bless you! he won't do that."

"I won't go down till he does."

"Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll

explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the

use of being melodramatic?"

"I don't intend to stay here long, any-way. I'll

slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when

grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough."

"I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry

him."

"Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see

Brooke; it's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the

troubles."

"What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too!" said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor in lively

visions of martial life at the capital.

"Come on, then! Why not? You go and

surprise your father, and I'll stir up old Brooke. It

would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo! We'll leave

a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.

I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be

no harm, as you go to your father."

For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for,

wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired

of care and confinement, longed for change, and

thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the

novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun.

Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the

window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and

she shook her head with sorrowful decision.

"If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have

a capital time; but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be

proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy,

it's a crazy plan."

"That's the fun of it!" began Laurie, who had got

a wilful fit on him, and was possessed to break out of

bounds in some way.

"Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears.

'Prunes and prisms' are my doom, and I may as well

make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize,

not to hear about things that make me skip to

think of."

"I knew Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal,

but I thought you had more spirit," began Laurie,

insinuatingly.

"Bad boy, be quiet. Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to mine. If I get

your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you

give up running away?" asked Jo, seriously.

"Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who

wished to "make up," but felt that his outraged dignity

must be appeased first.

"If I can manage the young one I can the old one,"

muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent

over a railroad map, with his head propped up on

both hands.

"Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded

gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.

"It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said,

blandly, as she entered.

"Want any more?" asked the old gentleman,

looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.

"Yes, please, I like old Sam so well, I think I'll

try the second volume," returned Jo, hoping to

propitiate him by accepting a second dose of "Boswell's Johnson," as he had recommended that lively work.

The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled

the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian

literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and, sitting on

the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but

was really wondering how best to introduce the

dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to

suspect that something was brewing in her mind; for,

after taking several brisk turns about the room, he

faced round on her, speaking so abruptly, that

"Rasselas" tumbled face downward on the floor.

"What has that boy been about? Don't try to

shield him, now! I know he has been in mischief, by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get

a word from him; and, when I threatened to shake the

truth out of him, he bolted up stairs, and locked

himself into his room."

"He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all

promised not to say a word to any one," began Jo,

reluctantly.

"That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind

a promise from you soft-hearted girls. If he's done

anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be

punished. Out with it, Jo! I won't be kept in the

dark."

Mr. Laurence looked so alarming, and spoke so

sharply, that Jo would have gladly run away, if she

could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he

stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay

and brave it out.

"Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, mother forbid it. Laurie

has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite

enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but

some one else, and it will make more trouble if you

interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but it's

all right now, so let's forget it, and talk about the

'Rambler,' or something pleasant."

"Hang the 'Rambler!' come down and give me

your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't

done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has,

after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with

my own hands."

The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for

she knew the irascible old man would never lift a

finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as

light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg,

or forgetting the truth.

"Hum! ha! well, if the boy held his tongue because

he'd promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him.

He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage," said Mr.

Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he'd

been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his

brow with an air of relief.

"So am I; but a kind word will govern me when

all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't,"

said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who

seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.

"You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the

sharp answer.

"Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind

sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your

patience. Don't you think you are?"

Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to

look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her

bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old

gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table

with a rattle, and exclaimed, frankly,—

"You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he

tries my patience past bearing, and I don't know how

it will end, if we go on so."

"I'll tell you,—he'll run away." Jo was sorry for

that speech the minute it was made; she meant to

warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint,

and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.

Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and

he sat down with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was

Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and

married against the imperious old man's will. Jo

fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and

she wished she had held her tongue.

"He won't do it, unless he is very much worried,

and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of

studying. I often think I should like to, especially

since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you

may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships

bound for India."

She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked

relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke.

"You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? where's

your respect for me, and your proper bringing up?

Bless the boys and girls! what torments they are; yet

we can't do without them," he said, pinching her

cheeks good-humoredly.

"Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell

him it's all right, and advise him not to put on

tragedy airs with his grandfather; I won't bear it."

"He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you

didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell. I

think the shaking hurt his feelings very much."

Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for

Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day

was won.

"I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not

shaking me I suppose. What the dickens does the

fellow expect?" and the old gentleman looked a trifle

ashamed of his own testiness.

"If I was you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come down till he has one; and talks

about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A

formal apology will make him see how foolish he is,

and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes

fun, and this way is better than talking. I'll carry it

up, and teach him his duty."

Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his

spectacles, saying, slowly, "You're a sly puss! but I

don't mind being managed by you and Beth. Here,

give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this

nonsense."

The note was written in the terms which one

gentleman would use to another after offering some deep

insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr.

Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology

under Laurie's door, advising him, through the

keyhole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few other

agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked

again, she left the note to do its work, and was going

quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down

the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom,

saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance,

"What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get

blown up?" he added, laughing.

"No; he was pretty clever, on the whole."

"Ah! I got it all round! even you cast me off over

there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce," he

began, apologetically.

"Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and

begin again, Teddy, my son."

"I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling

them, as I used to spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end," he said, dolefully.

"Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.

"That's a 'label' on my 'sect,' answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper, and overwhelmingly respectful in manner, all the rest of the day.

Every one thought the matter ended, and the little cloud blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and, once, Jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, "Mrs. John Brooke;" whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.