said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.
“Use the chicken then, the toughness won’t matter in a salad,” advised his wife.
“Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I’m very sorry, Amy,” added Beth.
“Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won’t do,” said Amy decidedly.
“Shall I rush into town and demand one?” asked Jo.
“You’d come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to bother me. I’ll go myself,” answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.
She departed. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again. Once she was back at home, she went through with the preparations, and at twelve o’clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday’s failure by a grand success today. So she ordered the ‘cherry bounce’, and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
“There’s the rumble, they’re coming! I’ll go onto the porch and meet them,” said Mrs. March. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression. In the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.
“Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,” cried Jo.
In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family played their parts equally well. Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The lunch was eaten, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy, and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when ‘the party went out’. As she came walking in, she was looking very tired but as composed as ever.
“You’ve had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear,” said her mother respectfully.
“Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought,” observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
“Could you give me some of your cake? I really need some, I have a company, and I can’t make such delicious stuff as yours,” asked Meg.
“Take it all. I’m the only one here who likes sweet things. It will mold before I can dispose of it,” answered Amy, with a sigh.
“It’s a pity Laurie isn’t here to help us,” began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks. The whole family ate in heroic silence.
“Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. I’m sick of the sight of this, and there’s no reason you must all die of a surfeit because I’ve been a fool,” cried Amy, wiping her eyes.
“I’m very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,” said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
“I am satisfied. I’ve done what I undertook, and it’s not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,” said Amy with a little quiver in her voice. “I thank you all very much for helping me. I’ll thank you still more if you won’t talk about it for a month, at least.”
Literary Lessons
Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but anyway.
Every few weeks she shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit[14], and ‘fall into a vortex’. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she wiped her pen, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair.
She did not think herself a genius by any means, but liked to write. She sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. The divine usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
One day she escorted Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a lecture on the Pyramids. They arrived early, and Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets, discussing Women’s Rights. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand. A somber spinster was eating peppermints out of a paper bag. An old gentleman was taking his nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a young man with a newspaper.
Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “Do you want to read it? That’s a first-rate story.”
Jo accepted it with a smile. She liked the lads. Soon she found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature.
“Good, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
“I think you and I can write better if we try,” returned Jo.
“I will be happy if I can. She makes good money of such stories, they say.”
And he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.
“No, but I read all her stories, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed.”
“Do you say she makes good money out of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the points that adorned the page.
“Of course! She knows just what folks like, and they pay her well for it.”
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it. The Professor was talking about Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics. Jo wrote down the address of the paper, and boldly resolved to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. The lecture ended and the audience awoke.
Jo said nothing of her plan at home, but continued to work next day. Jo never tried this style before. Her story was as full of desperation and despair, She chose location in Lisbon, an earthquake was the end of the story. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note. If the tale doesn’t get the prize, which the writer dares expect, she will be very glad to receive any sum.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, but Jo waited. At last, a letter arrived. A check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it was a snake. Then she read her letter and began to cry.
She was very proud. She electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other. She has won the prize! Of course there was a great jubilee, and then everyone read the story and praised it. Her father told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling. But he shook his head, and said,
“You can do better than this, Jo. Don’t think about the money.”
“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked Amy.
“I’ll send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo promptly.
To the seaside they went, after much discussion. Though Beth didn’t come home plump and rosy, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money. She earned some money that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house. By the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. “The Duke’s Daughter” paid the butcher’s bill, “A Phantom Hand” bought a new carpet, and the “Curse of the Coventrys” blessed the Marches in the way of groceries