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“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 birth-place, 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, likewise a diadem and pearl necklace.
Keeping his gravity with an effort, Teddy pointed to a very bad portrait of Mrs Jo, which hung behind the door, and afforded her much amusement, it was so dismal, in spite of a curious effect of light upon the end of the nose and cheeks as red as the chair she sat in.
“This was taken for my mother; but it is not very good,” he said, enjoying the struggles of the girls not to look dismayed at the sad difference between the real and the ideal. The youngest, aged twelve, could not conceal her disappointment, and turned away, feeling as so many of us have felt when we discover that our idols are very ordinary men and women.
“I thought she’d be about sixteen and have her hair braided in two tails down her back. I don’t care about seeing her now,” said the honest child, walking off to the hall door, leaving her mother to apologize, and her sisters to declare that the bad portrait was “perfectly lovely, so speaking and poetic, you know, ’specially about the brow.”
“Come girls, we must be goin’, if we want to get through today. You can leave your albums and have them sent when Mrs Bhaer has written a sentiment in ’em. We are a thousand times obliged. Give our best love to your ma, and tell her we are so sorry not to see her.”
Just as Mrs Erastus Kingsbury Parmalee uttered the words her eye fell upon a middle-aged woman in a large checked apron, with a handkerchief tied over her head, busily dusting an end room which looked like a study.
“One peep at her sanctum since she is out,” cried the enthusiastic lady, and swept across the hall with her flock before Teddy could warn his mother, whose retreat had been cut off by the artist in front, the reporter at the back of the house—for he hadn’t gone—and the ladies in the hall.
“They’ve got her!” thought Teddy, in comical dismay.
“No use for her to play housemaid since they’ve seen the portrait.”
Mrs Jo did her best, and being a good actress, would have escaped if the fatal picture had not betrayed her. Mrs Parmalee paused at the desk, and regardless of the meerschaum that lay there, the man’s slippers close by, and a pile of letters directed to “Prof. F. Bhaer”, she clasped her hands, exclaiming impressively: “Girls, this is the spot where she wrote those sweet, those moral tales which have thrilled us to the soul! Could I—ah, could I take one morsel of paper, an old pen, a postage stamp even, as a memento of this gifted woman?”
“Yes’m, help yourselves,” replied the maid, moving away with a glance at the boy, whose eyes were now full of merriment he could not suppress.
The oldest girl saw it, guessed the truth, and a quick look at the woman in the apron confirmed her suspicion. Touching her mother, she whispered: “Ma, it’s Mrs Bhaer herself. I know it is.”
“No? yes? it is! Well, I do declare, how nice that is!” And hastily pursuing the unhappy woman, who was making for the door, Mrs Parmalee cried eagerly: “Don’t mind us! I know you’re busy, but just let me take your hand and then we’ll go.”
Giving herself up for lost, Mrs Jo turned and presented her hand like a tea-tray, submitting to have it heartily shaken, as the matron said, with somewhat alarming hospitality:
“If ever you come to Oshkosh, your feet won’t be allowed to touch the pavement; for you’ll be borne in the arms of the populace, we shall be so dreadful glad to see you.”
Mentally resolving never to visit that effusive town, Jo responded as cordially as she could; and having written her name in the albums, provided each visitor with a memento, and kissed them all round, they at last departed, to call on “Longfeller, Holmes, and the rest”—who were all out, it is devoutly to be hoped.
“You villain, why didn’t you give me a chance to whip away? Oh, my dear, what fibs you told that man! I hope we shall be forgiven our sins in this line, but I don’t know what is to become of us if we don’t dodge. So many against one isn’t fair play.” And Mrs Jo hung up her apron in the hall closet, with a groan at the trials of her lot.
“More people coming up the avenue! Better dodge while the coast is clear! I’ll head them off!” cried Teddy, looking back from the steps, as he was departing to school.
Mrs Jo flew upstairs, and having locked her door, calmly viewed a young ladies’ seminary camp on the lawn, and being denied the house, proceed to enjoy themselves by picking the flowers, doing up their hair, eating lunch, and freely expressing their opinion of the place and its possessors before they went.
A few hours of quiet followed, and she was just settling down to a long afternoon of hard work, when Rob came home to tell her that the Young Men’s Christian Union would visit the college, and two or three of the fellows whom she knew wanted to pay their respects to her on the way.
“It is going to rain, so they won’t come, I dare say; but father thought you’d like to be ready, in case they do call. You always see the boys, you know, though you harden your heart to the poor girls,” said Rob, who had heard from his brother about the morning visitations.
“Boys don’t gush, so I can stand it. The last time I let in a party of girls one fell into my arms and said, ‘Darling, love me!’ I wanted to shake her,” answered Mrs Jo, wiping her pen with energy.
“You may be sure the fellows won’t do it, but they will want autographs, so you’d better be prepared with a few dozen,” said Rob, laying out a quire of note-paper, being a hospitable youth and sympathizing with those who admired his mother.
“They can’t outdo the girls. At X College I really believe I wrote three hundred during the day I was there, and I left a pile of cards and albums on my table when I came away. It is one of the most absurd and tiresome manias that ever afflicted the world.”
Nevertheless Mrs Jo wrote her name a dozen times, put on her black silk, and resigned herself to the impending call, praying for rain, however, as she returned to her work.
