Classics Mutilated (6 page)

"I expect him before Christmas morning," Marmee replied as she eased herself back into her chair and, closing her eyes, soon fell asleep in the warmth of the fire and her loving family. 

 "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs.

"Up here!" Jo answered from above. This was followed by the sound of running feet on the narrow stairs. Jo was wrapped in a comforter on an old sofa by the window, eating an apple and reading a novel,
The Heir of Radclyffe
. Outside, the sky was overcast and threatening more snow before Christmas, which was now three days away. 

The garret was Jo's favorite refuge, especially on glowering days. She loved to retire here with an apron full of apples or a piece of cheese, when the family could afford it, and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of her pet rat, Scrabble, who lived inside the attic walls. Only for Scrabble would Jo remove the linen gloves from her hands and allow him to nip her flesh with tiny, stinging bites and then lap up the trickles of blood that flowed.  

When Meg appeared, breathless, in the doorway, Jo lowered her book, irritated by the interruption. Scrabble whisked back into his rat hole, his small, beady eyes glaring at Meg from the safety of the den. 

Jo waited to hear the news.

"Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving a thin piece of parchment, and then proceeding to read from it with girlish delight. " ‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little
soirée
tomorrow evening.' A
soirée
, Jo! Just imagine! Marmee has already agreed we can go. Now, what shall we wear?" 

"What's the use of asking when you know we shall wear our poplins because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full of apple. A fresh spot of blood ran from the back of her left hand to her wrist.

"If I only had a silk dress," sighed Meg. 

"I'm sure our poplins look like silk, and they are nice enough. Yours is as good as new, but—Oh, dear! I just remembered the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't let any more fabric out." 

"Then you must sit still all evening and keep your back to the wall. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and I'm sure Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin. My new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will have to do." 

"Mine are spoiled with—" but here Jo stopped and put her hands behind her back so Meg would not see the fresh wounds. "I can't afford to buy any new ones, but I dare not go without." 

"You can't ask Mother for new gloves," Meg said, frowning. "They are so expensive, and you are so careless. You have spoiled your new ones already, and she said she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can you make do with what you have?" 

"I can hold my hands behind my back so no one will know how stained my gloves are," Jo said. "That's the best I can do." She glanced at the fine white lines of scars and fresh scabs on her hands. The fresh cut tingled and was still oozing blood. 

"Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say or think!" cried Jo, taking up her book again. "Now go and answer the note, and let me finish this splendid story." 

So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill while Jo finished her novel, her apple, and allowed Scrabble one final sip of fresh blood.

cd                                cd

"Now is my sash right, Jo? And does my hair look nice?" asked Meg, as she turned from the mirror in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. 

"I know I shall forget to behave myself," Jo replied. "If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. 

"Winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone." She needn't add that anyone Jo might shake hands with would notice the spots of blood on her gloves but was too polite to mention them.

"How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can."

Downstairs they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to Sallie, the eldest of six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or silly gossip, stood about with her hands behind her back and her back carefully against the wall. She felt about as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but her sister's eyebrows shot up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one, the group dwindled away until she was left quite alone. 

She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth of cloth and the stains on her gloves would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly until the dancing began. Meg was asked to dance at once, and she tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain her shoes were causing her. A big red-headed youth approached Jo's corner and, fearing he meant to engage her in conversation, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep out like Scrabble and enjoy herself in peace.

Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen that same refuge. As the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the "Laurence boy." 

"I didn't know anyone else was here," stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. 

"Don't mind me," the boy said pleasantly enough, though he looked as startled as a rabbit. In the dim light of the alcove, his eyes held a curious golden glow, as if filled with flecks of metal, and his skin was unusually pale, even for mid-winter. "Stay if you like." 

"Shan't I disturb you?" 

"Not a bit." His teeth were wide and flat, and they glistened wetly when he smiled. Jo sensed an uncanniness about him that was both off-putting and attractive. "I don't know many people here and felt rather strange at first." 

"So did I," replied Jo. "Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." 

The boy sat down again and looked at his shoes until Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "I believe I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live next door to us, don't you?" 

"I do," he replied as he looked at her and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner struck him as rather funny.  

That put Jo at her ease, and she laughed, too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "You arrived in town not long ago." 

"Three weeks, to be exact," said the boy. "But I have already learned some things. For instance, I know you have a pet rat. Tell me, Miss March—how is he?" The boy's pale eyes shone with a peculiar intensity as if he were attempting to probe her thoughts. 

"My—How do you know about my rat?" she asked, quickly shifting her blood-stained gloved hands behind her back.

The Laurence boy deigned not to reply to that, but after the awkward silence that followed, Jo continued, "He's getting along quite nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March. I'm only Jo."

"And I am not Mr. Laurence. I'm only Laurie." 

"Laurie … Laurie Laurence. Such an odd name." 

His eyes took on an amber tone which was impossible for Jo to read. Had she inadvertently insulted him?

"My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, so I ask everyone to call me Laurie instead." 

"I hate my name, too. It's so sentimental. I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine."

"I suspect if they don't, you could soundly thrash them," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Jo was suddenly sure that, although Laurie's shoulders were thin and slightly stooped, he had a look about him that communicated he could handily take care of himself. 

"I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it when she calls me Josephine," said Jo with a resigned sigh. 

"Do you like to dance, Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her quite aptly. 

"I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place this small, I'm sure to upset something or tread on people's feet or do something positively dreadful, so I keep to myself and let Meg sail about. Do you dance?" 

"Never. I recently arrived here and haven't been in people's company enough yet to know how you do things." 

"Where have you been, then?" inquired Jo.

After some hesitation, Laurie said, "Abroad," but this seemed to be laden with more meaning than he was letting on. 

"Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, do tell me about it! I love to hear people describe their travels abroad." 

Laurie looked askance, his golden eyes glittering, and didn't seem to know where to begin, so Jo decided not to press the matter. She quite glowed with pleasure in this boy's presence. She decided on the spot that she liked the "Laurence boy," and she took several good looks at him so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. Laurie, in particular, struck her as unique within the gender.

He had curly black hair, and pale, almost translucent skin. His large, oval-shaped eyes glittered like gold in the candlelight. His nose was handsome if narrow, and he had fine, wide teeth, though the canines appeared pointed and protruded more than usual. His hands and feet were small and slender, and he was taller than Jo and quite thin. Jo wondered how old he was, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way. 

"I suppose you are already pegging at college, then … I mean, studying hard." Jo blushed at her dreadful use of the word
pegging
, which had escaped her unawares. 

Laurie smiled but didn't seem at all shocked. He answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two yet. I won't go before I'm seventeen, in any event." 

"Are you but fifteen, then?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad. 

"Sixteen of your years next month." 

His curious use of the phrase
your years
slipped right past Jo, who commented, "How I wish I was going to college! But you don't look as if you like the prospect." 

"I hate it. School is nothing but grinding or skylarking. I don't like the way fellows do either, on your pl— … in your country." 

"What do you like to do, then?" 

"Live and enjoy myself in my own way," replied Laurie mysteriously, "but I hope to return home soon." 

Jo wanted very much to ask where "home" and what "his own way" were, but his lowering brows looked rather more threatening as he knit them together. She wanted to ask all about where he had been born and lived before coming to the States, but she changed the subject by saying, "That's a splendid polka. Why don't you go and try it?" 

"Only if you will come, too," he answered with a gallant little bow. 

"I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't because …"  

There Jo stopped herself and felt rather undecided whether to tell him the truth or merely to laugh it off. 

"Because what?" 

"Promise you won't tell?" 

"I promise." 

"Well, I scorched my dress quite badly, and though it's nicely mended, it still shows. Meg told me to keep still so no one would notice. You may go ahead and laugh, if you'd like. It
is
funny, I know." 

But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, the expression on his face so puzzling that Jo began to wonder if he was having some kind of spell until he said very gently, "Never mind that, then." Then he brightened and added, "I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall, and we can dance there, and no one will be the wiser." 

He held his hand out to her, but she hesitated to bring her gloved hands around from behind her back. He couldn't help but see the blood stains on them. 

Jo silently thanked him as he took her hand without batting an eye, and she gladly went with him, wishing she had two neat gloves like the nice pearl-colored ones he wore. 

The hall was indeed empty, and they had a grand polka, for Jo danced well and quickly taught Laurie the steps, which he executed with some clumsiness she had the grace not to mention. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs so Jo could catch her breath. Laurie seemed unaffected by the physical activity and was just about to say something when Meg appeared. She beckoned to Jo, who reluctantly followed her sister into a side room, where she collapsed onto a sofa, holding onto her foot and looking pale and in pain. 

"I've sprained my ankle dreadfully. That stupid high heel gave me a sad wrench. It aches so I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home." She rocked to and fro, wincing in pain. 

"I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I'm sorry, but I don't see what you can do except get a carriage or stay here for the night." 

"I can't have a carriage without it costing us ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own carriages, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." 

"I'll go." 

"No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt outside. I certainly can't stay here, for the house is full this evening. Sallie has some girls staying the night. I'll rest until Hannah comes, and then hobble home the best I can." 

"I'll ask Laurie. He will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. 

"Mercy, no! Don't ask him or anyone else. Get me my overshoes, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she arrives."