Classics Mutilated (8 page)

"We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and visit. Mother is so splendid. She'd do you heaps of good, and we'd welcome you and have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" 

"I think he would if your mother asked," replied Laurie. "He's very kind, though he does not look so. He lets me do whatever I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers." 

"We are not strangers. We are neighbors. And you needn't worry you'd be a bother to us. We want to know you. I've been wanting to meet you ever so long. We have got acquainted with all our neighbors save you." 

"Well, you see, Grandpa lives among his books and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't live here, so I have no one to go about with me, so I just stay at home and get on as best I can until I can return."

"Return?"

"Return home," said Laurie and, like on the night of the party, Jo had the good manners not to pursue the discussion if he seemed unwilling. But even as he said this, Jo could sense the well of sadness inside him, and the thought that he felt he didn't belong anywhere or to anyone cut her deeply. 

"You ought to make an effort to go visit everywhere you are asked. Then, perhaps, you'll have plenty of friends and pleasant places to go. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long." 

Laurie wasn't offended by Jo's forthright manner, for there was so much goodwill in her that it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. 

"Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject after a brief pause during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked all around her.  

"I don't go to school," she answered. "I'm a business-man … business girl, I mean. I wait on my Aunt March, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too." 

Laurie opened his mouth to ask a question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't polite manners to make too many inquiries into others' affairs, shut it again, content that Jo didn't probe too deeply into his family story, either. He found her freshness and openness charming and irresistible and might lower his guard and say more than he should if he wasn't careful.

For her part, Jo liked his obvious good breeding, and she didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that spoke Spanish, and the library where she reveled when Aunt March was napping. They got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved books as well as she did and had read even more than herself. 

"If you like books so much, please come downstairs and see ours. Grandfather is out on business, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. He looked unsteady on his feet, and when he took a breath, Jo noticed a most unusual whistling sound, but she chose not to comment on it.

"I'm not afraid of anything," Jo said with a toss of the head. 

"I don't believe you are," exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman if she met him when in one of his moods. 

Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her gloved hands as she always did when especially delighted. The walls were lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of strange coins and other curiosities. There were Sleepy Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and—best of all—a great open fireplace with Italian tiles lined all round it. 

"What richness," sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a purple velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world." 

"A fellow can't live on books alone," said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite and regarded her with his curious golden eyes. In the dimness of the room, they held a vibrant glow to which Jo found herself drawn. 

Before he could say more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! It's your grandpa!" 

"What if it is?" Laurie said. "I thought you were not afraid of anything." 

"I think I am afraid of him a little bit, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," Jo said, composing herself as she kept her eyes on the door. 

"I'm a great deal the better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me," said Laurie gratefully. 

A maid appeared in the doorway and said, "The doctor to see you, sir." 

"Would you mind if I left you for a minute?" said Laurie. 

"Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo, although truth to tell, she was curious to ask Laurie why he didn't use on himself the same strange healing device he had used on her parboiled hand at the party. But she let the thought slip away and watched as Laurie left the room. 

While he was gone, Jo amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I should be afraid of him, for he's got cruel, dark eyes, and his mouth is altogether grim. He looks as if he has a tremendous will of his own." 

"Thank you, ma'am, for that analysis," said a growling voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Unlike his grandson, he was squarely built, with short legs and thick, powerful arms. His eyes were as dark as ink wells.

Poor Jo blushed until she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart beat uncomfortably fast in her thin chest as she thought what she had done. Feeling terribly alone and vulnerable, she felt a wild desire to run away, but that was cowardly, so she resolved to stand her ground and get out of this as best she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder than the painted ones, and was there a sly twinkle in them. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said after the dreadful pause, "So, you say that you're afraid of me, hey?" 

"No—no, sir," Jo replied, knowing in her heart that he knew she was not telling the truth. 

"And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?" 

"Not quite, begging your pardon, sir." 

"And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" 

"I only said I suspect so," Jo stammered.

That final answer seemed to please the old gentleman, for he threw his head back and gave a short, barking laugh and reached out to shake hands with her. His palm, she noticed, was as rough as tree bark, which struck her as odd, seeing as it was the hand of a gentleman. 

Putting his finger under her chin, he turned her face up and examined it gravely for a long time. Looking directly at him, and so close, she could see now the same golden glint in his eyes as in Laurie's. After a lengthening moment of intense scrutiny, he let her face go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, I dare say, even if you haven't got his face." 

"Thank you, sir," said Jo. 

"What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. 

"Only trying to be neighborly, sir."  

"Neighborly, you say?" 

"I wanted to cheer him up in his illness."  

"His illness is no concern of yours," the old gentleman replied. "So you think he needs cheering?" 

"Yes, sir. A bit, sir. He seems a bit lonely, and being around young folks would do him no end of good. We are only girls, my sisters and I, but we should be glad to help if we could," said Jo eagerly. 

"Tut, tut, tut! And what news of your father?"

"We received a letter just the other day, informing us that he will be home in time for Christmas."

"What a fine Christmas present that will be," replied Mr. Laurence. "I, myself, was born on Christmas Day."

Jo had no idea how to respond to that, having heard that people who have the audacity to be born on the Savior's birthday are fated to be evil. She noticed the sudden darkness in his eyes, as if a cloud had shifted in front of the sun, blocking its warming rays. 

"Hey! Why? What the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman as Laurie came running downstairs and was brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo standing in front of his redoubtable grandfather. 

"I didn't know you'd come home, sir," Laurie began. 

"That's evident by the way you racket downstairs. Come. Behave like a gentleman." He cast a wary eye at Jo, and then added, "Perhaps young master will make the adjustment to his life here after all." 

Laurie's face colored at this, and she didn't need to hear him say how much he wanted to go back home, wherever home was. 

Turning to Jo, the old gentleman continued, "You're right on the money, Miss March. The lad is lonely so dreadfully far away from home. Perhaps we'll see what these little girls next door can do for him."

Jo determined it was time to go, but Laurie said he had one more thing to show her, and he took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairy-like to Jo as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the sweet, damp air, and the wonderful vines and trees that grew in profusion. Some of them she didn't recognize at all, and many had strange fruits on their vines and thorns on their stems. They filled the air with an intoxicatingly unearthly perfume, which hung about her while her new friend cut the finest flowers until his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying with a happy look, "Please give these to your cherished mother, and tell her I approve of the medicine she sent to me." 

"That will do. That will do, young man," said the old gentleman who was standing in the doorway of the conservatory. Jo had not heard him enter. "Too many sugarplums are not good for her. Going, Miss March? Well, I hope you will come again. Give my respects to your mother." 

He bowed deeply to her, but even with his head bowed, he looked at her, and she could tell that something of a sudden had not pleased him. When they got into the hall, Jo whispered to Laurie, asking if she had said or done anything amiss. He shook his head. 

"No. It was I. He doesn't like it when I enter the conservatory."

"Why not?" 

"I'll tell you another day." 

"Take care of yourself, then." 

"I will, but will you come again, I hope?" 

"Only if you promise to come and visit us, if you are well enough. Perhaps on Christmas day." 

"Perhaps I shall." 

"Good night, Laurie." 

"And a good night to you, too, Doctor Jo."

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When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had known him. Meg longed to walk in the flower conservatory and see its exotic beauties, as described by Jo. Amy was eager to see the fine paintings and statues. And Beth sighed from the corner and whispered how she wished she could play the grand piano. 

"Mother, what did he mean by that nice little speech he gave about the medicine Mother sent him?" asked Jo. "Did he mean the blancmange?" 

"How silly you are, child," Marmee replied. "He meant you, of course." 

"He did?" 

And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her. 

"I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you receive one," said Meg with the air of a young lady who knew all about such matters. 

"I think they are a great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish spoil my fun. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any parents, and he may come over and see us. Mayn't he, Marmee?" 

"Yes, Jo. Your friend is very welcome here, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." 

"I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. 

"And I say to be a child again would be a lovely thing … a heavenly thing," whispered Beth from her dark corner beside the fireplace. Only she noticed the way their servant Hannah was standing, unseen and silent, in the doorway, her eyes cast in deep concern.

As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies in honor of this unusually merry Christmas they faced this year with Father's promised return. She was impracticable and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if she had her own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, her extravagant plans were effectually quenched, and she went about with a forlorn face as she retired to the garret where she allowed Scrabble to feed on more blood than was his wont.  

Snow arrived the day before Christmas and continued overnight, piling up three feet or more in the country roads and fields. Christmas Day morning dawned dark and gloomy, but the family was determined to spend their day in cozy companionship, except for Jo, who planned to spend some time with Laurie. 

Perhaps because of the weather, perhaps because of her uncanny insight, Hannah felt "in her bones" that the day was going to be an unusually bad day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to go wrong, no matter what one attempted. To begin with, Father had written more than a month ago from the Army hospital in Maryland that he expected to be home soon. Meg thought it would be exquisite if he were to arrive before they shared their holiday dinner, which Hannah took all day to prepare with help from all three girls. But with the weather choking the roads, Marmee expressed her doubts about his arrival before the New Year.