‘Give him Nan’s address, and see what he’ll get,’ proposed Ted, privately resolving to do it himself if possible.
‘This is from a lady who wants you to adopt her child and lend her money to study art abroad for a few years. Better take it, and try your hand at a girl, mother.’
‘No, thank you, I will keep to my own line of business. What is that blotted one? It looks rather awful, to judge by the ink,’ asked Mrs Jo, who beguiled her daily task by trying to guess from the outside what was inside her many letters. This proved to be a poem from an insane admirer, to judge by its incoherent style.
‘TO J.M.B.
‘Oh, were I a heliotrope,
I would play poet,
And blow a breeze of fragrance
To you; and none should know it.
‘Your form like the stately elm
When Phoebus gilds the morning ray;
Your cheeks like the ocean bed
That blooms a rose in May.
‘Your words are wise and bright,
I bequeath them to you a legacy given;
And when your spirit takes its flight,
May it bloom aflower in heaven.
‘My tongue in flattering language spoke,
And sweeter silence never broke
in busiest street or loneliest glen.
I take you with the flashes of my pen.
‘Consider the lilies, how they grow;
They toil not, yet are fair,
Gems and flowers and Solomon’s seal.
The geranium of the world is J. M. Bhaer.
‘JAMES’
While the boys shouted over this effusion—which is a true one—their mother read several liberal offers from budding magazines for her to edit them gratis; one long letter from a young girl inconsolable because her favourite hero died, and ‘would dear Mrs Bhaer rewrite the tale, and make it end good?’ another from an irate boy denied an autograph, who darkly foretold financial ruin and loss of favour if she did not send him and all other fellows who asked autographs, photographs, and auto-biographical sketches; a minister wished to know her religion; and an undecided maiden asked which of her two lovers she should marry. These samples will suffice to show a few of the claims made on a busy woman’s time, and make my readers pardon Mrs Jo if she did not carefully reply to all.
‘That job is done. Now I will dust a bit, and then go to my work. I’m all behind-hand, and serials can’t wait; so deny me to everybody, Mary. I won’t see Queen Victoria if she comes today.’ And Mrs Bhaer threw down her napkin as if defying all creation.
‘I hope the day will go well with thee, my dearest,’ answered her husband, who had been busy with his own voluminous correspondence. ‘I will dine at college with Professor Plock, who is to visit us today. The Jünglings can lunch on Parnassus; so thou shalt have a quiet time.’ And smoothing the worried lines out of her forehead with his good-bye kiss, the excellent man marched away, both pockets full of books, an old umbrella in one hand, and a bag of stones for the geology class in the other.
‘If all literary women had such thoughtful angels for husbands, they would live longer and write more. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a blessing to the world though, as most of us write too much now,’ said Mrs Jo, waving her feather duster to her spouse, who responded with flourishes of the umbrella as he went down the avenue.
Rob started for school at the same time, looking so much like him with his books and bag and square shoulders and steady air that his mother laughed as she turned away, saying heartily: ‘Bless both my dear professors, for better creatures never lived!’
Emil was already gone to his ship in the city; but Ted lingered to steal the address he wanted, ravage the sugar-bowl, and talk with ‘Mum’; for the two had great larks together.
Mrs Jo always arranged her own parlour, refilled her vases, and gave the little touches that left it cool and neat for the day. Going to draw down the curtain, she beheld an artist sketching on the lawn, and groaned as she hastily retired to the back window to shake her duster.
At that moment the bell rang and the sound of wheels was heard in the road.
‘I’ll go; Mary lets ’em in’; and Ted smoothed his hair as he made for the hall.
‘Can’t see anyone. Give me a chance to fly upstairs,’ whispered Mrs Jo, preparing to escape. But before she could do so, a man appeared at the door with a card in his hand. Ted met him with a stern air, and his mother dodged behind the window-curtains to bide her time for escape.
‘I am doing a series of articles for the Saturday Tattler, and I called to see Mrs Bhaer the first of all,’ began the newcomer in the insinuating tone of his tribe, while his quick eyes were taking in all they could, experience having taught him to make the most of his time, as his visits were usually short ones.
‘Mrs Bhaer never sees reporters, sir.’
‘But a few moments will be all I ask,’ said the man, edging his way farther in.
‘You can’t see her, for she is out,’ replied Teddy, as a backward glance showed him that his unhappy parent had vanished—through the window, he supposed, as she sometimes did when hard bested.
‘Very sorry. I’ll call again. Is this her study? Charming room!’ And the intruder fell back on the parlour, bound to see something and bag a fact if he died in the attempt.
‘It is not,’ said Teddy, gently but firmly backing him down the hall, devoutly hoping that his mother had escaped round the corner of the house.
‘If you could tell me Mrs Bhaer’s age and birthplace, date of marriage, and number of children, I should be much obliged,’ continued the unabashed visitor as he tripped over the door-mat.
‘She is about sixty, born in Nova Zembla, married just forty years ago today, and has eleven daughters. Anything else, sir?’ And Ted’s sober face was such a funny contrast to his ridiculous reply that the reporter owned himself routed, and retired laughing just as a lady followed by three beaming girls came up the steps.
‘We are all the way from Oshkosh, and couldn’t go home without seein’ dear Aunt Jo. My girls just admire her works, and lot on gettin’ a sight of her. I know it’s early; but we are goin’ to see Holmes and Longfeller, and the rest of the celebrities, so we ran out here fust thing. Mrs Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee, of Oshkosh, tell her. We don’t mind waitin’; we can look round a spell if she ain’t ready to see folks yet.’
All this was uttered with such rapidity that Ted could only stand gazing at the buxom damsels, who fixed their six blue eyes upon him so beseechingly that his native gallantry made it impossible to deny them a civil reply at least.
‘Mrs Bhaer is not visible today—out just now, I believe; but you can see the house and grounds if you like,’ he murmured, falling back as the four pressed in gazing rapturously about them.
‘Oh, thank you! Sweet, pretty place I’m sure! That’s where she writes, ain’t it? Do tell me if that’s her picture! Looks just as I imagined her!’
With these remarks the ladies paused before a fine engraving of the Hon. Mrs Norton, with a pen in her hand and a rapt expression of countenance,