Little Women

‘Grandpa sent it.’

‘But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?’

‘How is your cat, Miss March?’ asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.

‘Nicely, thank you, Mr Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo,’ returned the young lady.

‘I’m not Mr Laurence, I’m only Laurie.’

‘Laurie Laurence – what an odd name!’

‘My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.’

‘I hate my name, too – so sentimental! I wish everyone would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?’

‘I thrashed ’em.’

‘I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it’; and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

‘Do you like parties?’ she asked in a moment.

‘Sometimes; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been in company enough yet to know how you do things here.’

‘Abroad!’ cried Jo. ‘Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels.’

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin; but Jo’s eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevey, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

‘Don’t I wish I’d been there!’ cried Jo. ‘Did you go to Paris?’

‘We spent last winter there.’

‘Can you talk French?’

‘We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevey.’

‘Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.’

‘Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolies?’ said Laurie, good-naturedly.

‘How nicely you do it! Let me see – you said, “Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,” didn’t you?’

‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

‘It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?’

‘Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet.’

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanour amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever, and 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.

‘Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?’

It was on the tip of Jo’s 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 going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books – no, I mean studying hard’; and Jo blushed at the dreadful ‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled, but didn’t seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug:

‘Not for a year or two; I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.’

‘Aren’t you but fifteen?’ asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.

‘Sixteen, next month.’

‘How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.’

‘I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the way fellows do either in this country.’

‘What do you like?’

‘To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.’

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was: but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, ‘That’s a splendid polka in the next room. Why don’t you go and try it?’

‘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, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

‘Because what?’ asked Laurie, curiously.

‘You won’t tell?’

‘Never!’

‘Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know.’

But Laurie didn’t laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently: ‘Never mind that. I’ll tell you how we can manage: there’s a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.’

Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-coloured ones her partner put on. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring.

When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

‘I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and 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 said, rocking to and fro in pain.

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

‘I can’t have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I daresay I can’t get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.’

‘I’ll go.’