LITTLE WOMEN by Louisa May Alcott

"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said
little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender,
and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said...
"Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with
a paternal pat on the head.
"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping
of coals of fire on her enemy's head.
To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases,
but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers,
painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate
purchases.
Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and
said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter
lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of
mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause
of her pleasure till several days later.
The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy
goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate
kiss, and a look which said `forgive and forget'. That satisfied
Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on
the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each. "The
reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced
with a flourish.
"You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness
of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved
sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo
warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.
"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive.
It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting
your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could
have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.
"Why, girls, you needn't praise me so. I only did as I'd
be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but
I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do
it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to
be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil
so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in
time to be what Mother is."
Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, "I
understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again.
You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons
of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe.
Try away, deary, you'll get your reward some day, and
no one will be more delighted than I shall."
A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it
hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs.
March's face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it
that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad
tiding were.
"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants..."
"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair
in an uncontrollable rapture.
"No, dear, not you. It's Amy."
"Oh, Mother! She's too young, it's my turn first. I've
wanted it so long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether
splendid. I must go!"
"I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly,
and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."
"It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work.
It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately.
"I'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke
to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too
independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you
had said--`I planned at first to ask Jo, but as `favors burden her',
and she `hates French', I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy
is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive
gratefully any help the trip may give her."
"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can't I learn to
keep it quiet?' groaned Jo, remembering words which had been
her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted
phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully...
"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this
time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure
by reproaches or regrets."
"I'll try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick
up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of
her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not
grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won't be easy, for
it is a dreadful disappointment." And poor Jo bedewed the little
fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.
"Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and
I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing
her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face
that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her
want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden
her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.
By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in
the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps,
but without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady
herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about
in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and
pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes,
money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art
than herself.
"It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively,
as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career,
for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome,
and will do something to prove it."
"Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes,
at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.
"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,"
replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure.
But she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away
at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she
gave up her hopes.
"No, you won't. You hate hard work, and you'll marry some
rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your
days," said Jo.
"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe
that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be
an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are,"
said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit
her better than that of a poor drawing teacher.
"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh. "If you wish it you'll have it,
for your wishes are always granted--mine never."
"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her
nose with her knife.
"Rather!"
"Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in
the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so
many times."
"Thank you. I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful
day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but
magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.
"There was not much time for preparation, and the house was
in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the
last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her
refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more.
Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed. Then
just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came
over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and
those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last
lingerer, saying with a sob...
"Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should
happen... "
"I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I'll come
and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would
be called upon to keep his word.
So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always
new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend
watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle
fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand
to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling
on the sea.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
London
Dearest People,
Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,
Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped
here years ago, and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't
mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin
to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give
you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch
and scribble since I started.
I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable,
but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all
day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was
very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo,
gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to,
or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy
to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death,
I'm afraid.
Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let
alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and
enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid
air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse,
when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come,
it would have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have
gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing
is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the
captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of
rapture.
It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast,
and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins
here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's
countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks.
It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to
see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque,
and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it.
At Queenstown on of my new acquaintances left us, Mr.
Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney,
he sighed and and, with a look at me...
"Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney;
From the glance of her eye,
Shun danger and fly,
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney."
Wasn't that nonsensical?
We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty,
noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and
bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an
umbrella, and got shaved `a la mutton chop, the first thing.
Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton,
but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the
little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said,
with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given `em the latest
Yankee shine." It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you
what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came
on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I
saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments,"
on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling.
I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was
like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes.
The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs,
ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy
children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil
than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had
a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee
biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so green, sky
so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all
the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the
other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at
the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep,
but Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything.
This is the way we went on. Amy, flying up--"Oh, that
must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo, darting
to my window--"How sweet! We must go there sometime, won't we
Papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless
you want beer, that's a brewery."
A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and
a man going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two
tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. "A colliery,"
remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock
of lambs all lying down," says Amy. "See, Papa, aren't they
pretty?" added Flo sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns
Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to
enjoy the FLIRTATIONS OF CAPTAIN CAVENDISH, and I have the scenery
all to myself.
Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was
nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked,
and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some
new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready.
A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the
loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is
perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only
sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves
in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?
Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while
Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned
afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in
them alone. It was so droll! For when we were shut in by the
wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and
told me to stop him. but he was up outside behind somewhere,
and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me
flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless,
rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace.
At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on
poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said...
"Now, then, mum?"
I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down
the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk,
as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, "A little
faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we
resigned ourselves to our fate.
Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we
are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives
near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and
the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I
saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers
rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous
Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered
coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children
I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer
English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers,
in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking
so funny I longed to sketch them.
Rotten Row means `Route de Roi', or the king's way, but
now it's more like a riding school than anything else. The
horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride
well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according
to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American
gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant
habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's
Ark. Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little children--
and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I say a pair
exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the
button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea.
In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to
describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime!
This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate
end to the happiest day of my life.
It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning
without telling you what happened last evening. Who do
you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends,
Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have
known them but for the cards. both are tall fellows with whiskers,
Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better,
for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard
from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their
house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see
them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did
have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and
Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we
had know each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her,
and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I
spoke of Jo, and sent his `respectful compliments to the big hat'.
Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had
there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?
Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must
stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing
here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head
a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures
who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true
English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my
nonsense am, as ever, your loving...
AMY
PARIS
Dear girls,
In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the
Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed
the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than
anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and
at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds,
Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond
Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and
I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy,
also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We `did' London
to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry
to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in,
when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone
in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in
Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they
don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very
nice fellows, especially Fred.
Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again,
saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland.
Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she
couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very
glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't
know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten
words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it
would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is
old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves
that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful
to have Fred do the `parley vooing', as Uncle calls it.
Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from
morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes,
and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I
spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up
her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no
soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivation eye and taste
as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people
better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray
coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie
Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's
sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours
about them when I come, but haven't time to write.
The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijouterie
and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't
buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't
allow it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are tres magnifique.
I've seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly,
hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in
bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves.
Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor,
and kissed his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse
barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted
guard before and behind.
We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are
lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better.
Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are
like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with
images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners
to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy.
Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the
balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It
is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when
too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining,
and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew--
except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred
was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however, the Vaughns
are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't
find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.
Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as
we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
letters. I keep my diary, and try to `remember correctly and
describe clearly all that I see and admire', as Father advised.
It is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give
you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.
Adieu, I embrace you tenderly.
VOTRE AMIE
HEIDELBERG
My dear Mamma,
Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to
tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important,
as you will see.
The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed
it with all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and
read about it. I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it.
At Coblenz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn,
with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade.
It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were
waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up,
and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and
the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic
thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress
opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.
When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw
them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies,
and go laughing away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next
morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest
pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said
I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he
tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm
afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
look like it.
The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden,
where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone
to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said
once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her
that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I
saw Goeth's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous
Ariadne. It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it
more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as
everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell
me all about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't
know anything, and it mortifies me.
Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred
has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got
quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a traveling
friendship till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to
feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures
were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted,
Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done
my very best. I can't help it if people like me. I don't try to
make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo
says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will shake her
head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", but
I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him,
though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably
together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very
rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his
family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all
kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the
eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid
one it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy
as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid
luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's
genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants,
and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should
ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap
up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary,
but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer
than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg didn't, Jo
won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all
round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be
sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very
well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very
fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning
the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to
help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things
showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the
carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone,
and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak tome. Yesterday
at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said
something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about `ein wonderschones
Blondchen', Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat
so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the
cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch
blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at
least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to
the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking
about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his English
wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine,
so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying
to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet
woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a
romance, sitting there, watching the Meckar rolling through the
valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and
waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling
that something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I
didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little
excited.
By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I
forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said
he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
very ill. So he was going at once on the night train and only
had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed
for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as he shook hands,
and said it in a way that I could not mistake, "I shall soon come back,
you won't forget me, Amy?"
I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied,
and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes,
for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much.
I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once
hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of
the sort yet a while, for is is a rash boy, and the old gentleman
dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in
Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank
you," when he says "Will you, please?"
Of course this is all very private, but I wished you to
know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me, remember I
am your `prudent Amy', and be sure I will do nothing rashly.
Send me as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I
wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.
Ever your AMY
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."
"Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the
babies came."
"It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits.
I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover
what it is."
"What makes you think so, Mother?"
"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father
as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the
other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and
now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand.
This isn't like Beth, and it worries me."
"Have you asked her about it?'
"I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my
questions or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never
force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait
for long."
Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face
opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude
but Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo
said, "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams,
and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or
being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's eighteen, but
we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting
she's a woman."
"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned
her mother with a sigh and a smile.
"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to
all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest,
one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any
comfort to you."
"It's a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you
are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too
young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always
ready."
"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there
must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine
works and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the carpets
are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once.
Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amiss
at home, I'm your man."
"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her
tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be
very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks
about; her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful
again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."
"Happy woman! I've got heaps."
"My dear, what are they?"
"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine.
They are not very wearing, so they'll keep." And Jo stitched away,
with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for
the present at least.
While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched
Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled
upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight
incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and
lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting
to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were
alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her
sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her
hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,
autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling
like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene!
Coming in tonight."
Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the
passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if
to herself, "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."
"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the
bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and
presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked
it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that
made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped
away, murmuring something about needing more paper.
"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in
her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she
believed she had just made. "I never dreamed of such a thing.
What will Mother say? I wonder if her..." there Jo stopped
and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love
back again, how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him!"
And she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievouslooking
boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we are
growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma,
Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only
one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought
intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then
she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided
nod at the face opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're very
charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So
you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating
way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it."
Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she
did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new
observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though
Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth
had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's.
Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more
for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression
had prevailed in the family of late that `our boy' was getting
fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon
the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it.
If they had known the various tender passages which had been
nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction
of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated `philandering', and
wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the
least sign of impending danger.
When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about
once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent,
did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in
the alternations of hop, despair, and resignation, which were
confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a
time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted
darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally
in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject
altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to `dig', intending to graduate
in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than
twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and
eloquent glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developed
earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to
real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be
shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter
were less manageable.
Things were in this state when the grand discovery was
made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done
before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she
would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was
very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the
rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great
pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
or romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth
lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing
her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly
`spin', and he never disappointed her. But that evening Jo
fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face
beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with
intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match,
though the phrases, `caught off a tice', `stumped off his ground'',
and `the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her as
Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,
that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner,
that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual,
was a little absent--minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's
feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.
"Who knows? Stranger things have happened," thought Jo,
as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel
of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant
for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he
can help it, and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of
the way."
As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to
feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But
where should she go? And burning to lay herself upon the shrine
of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.
Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long,
broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might
be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies,
fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries
under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams,
and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved
it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been
Jo's favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon
of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.
Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with
deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former
days when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it
from the seat he most coveted next ot Jo in the sofa corner. If
`the sausage' as the called it, stood on end, it was a sign that
he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa,
woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening
Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat
five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and with
both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out
before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction...
"Now, this is filling at the price."
"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was
too late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor,
it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.
"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a
skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get
it."
"Beth will pet you. I'm busy."
"No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort
of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you?
Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"
Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom
heard, but Jo quenched `her boy' by turning on him with a stern
query, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"
"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."
"I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances,
sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two
pins," continued Jo reprovingly.
"Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't
let me send them `flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings
need a` vent'."
"Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do
flirt desperately, Teddy."
"I'd give anything if I could answer, `So do you'. As I can't,
I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little
game, if all parties understand that it's only play."
"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done.
I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as
everybody else id doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo,
forgetting to play mentor.
"Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it."
"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too
far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without
trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the
wrong place."
"I'm glad you can't flirt. It's really refreshing to see a
sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without
making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the
girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them.
They don't mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how we
fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I
fancy."
"They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest,
you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they,
every bit. If you behaved properly, they would, but knowing
you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame
them."
"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone.
"We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if
we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never
talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman.
Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle.
Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls,
I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin...
"Out upon you, fie upon you,
Bold-faced jig!"
It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict
between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind,
and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of
which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew
that `young Laurence' was regarded as a most eligible parti
by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters,
and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing
he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed
to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning
suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her
voice, "If you must have a `went', Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the `pretty, modest girls' whom you do
respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."
"You really advise it?" And Laurie looked at her with
an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.
"Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through
college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place
meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever
the modest girl may be." And Jo looked a little queer likewise,
for a name had almost escaped her.
"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of
humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently
wound Jo's apron tassel round his finger.
"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding
aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and
always like yours."
"I'd rather stay here, thank you."
"Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourself
useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you
hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?" retorted Jo,
quoting certain rebellious words of his own.
"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie
gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.
"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.
He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the
bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more
till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon.
Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off
when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside,
with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
"Is it the old pain, my precious?'
"No, it's a new one, but I can bear it." And Beth tried
to check her tears.
"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did
the other."
"You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave
way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly
that Jo was frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I call Mother?"
"No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be
better soon. Lie down here and `poor' my head. I'll be
quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will."
Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across
Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full
and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned
that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must
open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of
Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does
anything trouble you, deary?"
"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.
"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
"not now, not yet."
"Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and
Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."
"I know it. I'll tell you by-and-by."
"Is the pain better now?"
"Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo."
"Go to sleep, dear. I'll stay with you."
So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow
Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads
nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.
But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a
project for some days, she confided it to her mother.
"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll
tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along
together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a
change."
"Why, Jo?" And her mother looked up quickly, as if the
words suggested a double meaning.
With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want
something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing,
doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over
my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be
spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my
wings."
"Where will you hop?"
"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is
it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable
young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard
to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried."
"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!"
And Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.
"It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is
your friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make
things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from
the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do.
It's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it."
"Nor I. But your writing?"
"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new
things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there,
I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."
"I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for
this sudden fancy?'
"No, Mother."
"May I know the others?"
Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with
sudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong to
say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me."
"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he
begins to care for you?' And Mrs. March looked anxious as she
put the question.
"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and
am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out
of the question."
"I'm glad of that, Jo."
"Why, please?'
"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As
friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow
over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life.
You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention
hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a
relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well
as love."
"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it.
I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would
trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love
with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"
"You are sure of his feeling for you?"
The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with
the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young
girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is
so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal.
I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."
"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How
Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she
knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope."
"AH, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the
hope is the same in all--the desire to see their children happy.
Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to
enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you
find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care
now, but her good sense will help ;her. For Beth, I indulge
no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems
brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?'
"Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell
me by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I know it," And
Jo told her little story.
Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic
a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion
that for Laurie's sake Jo should go away for a time.
"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled,
then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic.
Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't
talk about Laurie to her. But she can pet and comfort him after
I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been
through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and
will soon get over his lovelornity."
Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding
fear that this `little trial' would be harder than the others,
and that Laurie would not get over his `lovelornity' as easily
as heretofore.
The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed
upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to
make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render
her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made
profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would
be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was
eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow
for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was
settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her
surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than
usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused
of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am,
and I mean this one shall stay turned."
Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits
should come on just then, and made her preparations with a
lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped
she was doing the best for all.
"One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the
night before she left.
"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.
"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"
"Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll
miss you sadly."
"It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your
charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."
"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering
why Jo looked at her so queerly.
When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It
won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you
do, or I'll come and bring you home."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
New York, November
Dear Marmee and Beth,
I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps
to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent.
When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a
trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an
Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less,
hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread
nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.
Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I
cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.
Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once,
even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny
little sky parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a
nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever
I like. A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for
the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot.
The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next
Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty
children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after
telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make
a model governess.
I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to
the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful,
though no one will believe it.
"Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her
motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you
may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off
my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are
always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I
can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you
feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me
if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the
tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled,
leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked.
The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood
waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl
to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the
heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put
it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind
nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so. The little back
is too young to haf such heaviness."
Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for as Father
says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K.,
that evening, she laughed, and said, "That must have been
Professor Bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort."
Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good,
but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself
and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according
to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not
a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to
hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to
peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost
forty, so it's no harm, Marmee.
After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I
attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting
with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it
once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.
Tuesday Eve
Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the
children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I
should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to
try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down
and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a
walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel `with a
willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to
make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut,
and someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee.
It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't
resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain
before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there,
and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A
regular German--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over
his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever
saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after
our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty,
his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature
in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for
he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked
like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and
there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of
his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth
bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him
like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at
the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!"
I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of
a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going
on.
"Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book
and running to meet him.
"Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot
hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up
with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she
had to stoop her little face to kiss him.
"Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little
thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary
she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and
she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing
her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word,
so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while
Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look
that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more
French than German.
Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent
me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all
the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls
kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a
coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an
accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.
Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once
I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf
not attend to what I say," and once there was a loud rap, as
if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing
exclamation, "Prut! It all goes bad this day."
Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took
just one more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have
thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with
his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put
his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and
taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his
arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life
of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five
o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought
I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same
roof with me. So I made myself respectable and tried to slip
in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm tall, my
efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a
seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage
and looked about me. The long table was full, and every--
one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially,
who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every
sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There
was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves,
young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their
babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall
care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced
maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.
Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor,
shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive,
deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with
a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have
turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had
a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which
would have horrified `her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like
`to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor
man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.
As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men
were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard
one say low to the other, "Who's the new party?"
"Governess, or something of that sort."
"What the deuce is she at our table for?"
"Friend of the old lady's."
"Handsome head, but no style."
"Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on."
I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess
is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't
style, which is more than some people have, judging from the
remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like
bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!
Thursday
Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and
writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and
fire. I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the
Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman
who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing
has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house
like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is
very fond of children, though a `bacheldore'. Kitty and Minnie
Kirk likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of
stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and
the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems,
call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner
of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke
says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in
spite of his foreign ways.
The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and
kind. She spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table
again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come
and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures,
knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make
myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only
it isn't the same sort that Amy likes.
I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in
with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but
Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily.
"This is Mamma's friend, Miss March."
"Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty,
who is and `enfant terrible'.
We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction
and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.
"Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees
Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a
threatening frown that delighted the little wretches.
I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I
was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today as I passed
his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with
my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing
gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle
in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when
I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all,
saying in his loud, cheerful way...
"You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle."
I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic,
also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
The German gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is
another thing and not so pretty.
Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss
Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very
charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if
I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her
escort, if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure
Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness
to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such
people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully.
When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar
in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down
on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading
him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with
seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.
"We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty.
"Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the
Professor's hair.
"Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon,
when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?"
said Minnie.
The `effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any
of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so,
if we make too large a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we
go more softly."
I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the
fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never
witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sang,
and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about
the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks
on the chimney tops, and the little `koblods', who ride the
snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and
natural as Germans, don't you?
I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if
motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin
paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this
long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can
spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her
splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying
so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take
good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies,
and give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.
P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather
Bhaery, but I am always interested in odd people, and I really
had nothing else to write about. Bless you!
DECEMBER
My Precious Betsey,
As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to
you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings
on, for though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh,
be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in
the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin
to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are
not so interesting tome as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty
by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly
little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of
German and American spirit in the produces a constant state of
effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether
spent in the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to
walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep
order, and then such fun!
We are very good friends now, and I've begun to take
lessons. I really couldn't help it, and it all came about in
such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning,
Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer's room
where she was rummaging.
"Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and
help me put these books to rights, for I've turned everything
upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six
new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago."
I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it
was `a den' to be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken
meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantlepiece as if done
with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window
seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other. Half-finished
boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts. Dirty
little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the
dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself,
were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage
three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird
cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having
been used as a holder.
"Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the
relics in the rag bay. "I suppose the others are torn up to
rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails. It's dreadful,
but I can't scold him. He's so absent-minded and goodnatured,
he lets those boys ride over him roughshod. I agreed to do
his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things
and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes."
"Let me mend them," said I. "I don't mind it, and he needn't
know. I'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters
and lending books."
So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two
pairs of the socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his
queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the
lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
that I took a fancy to lear, for Tina runs in and out, leaving
the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl
had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
Tina not to betray him.
"So!" he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, "you
peep at me, I peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am
not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?"
"Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn," I
blundered out, as red as a peony.
"Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the
sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness,
for look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay." And
he pointed to my work `Yes, ' they say to one another, these so
kind ladies, `he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we
do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes
any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
and believe that strings make theirselves.' "Ah! But I haf an
eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.
Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works
for me and mine."
Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it
really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we
began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical
bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must
have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me
with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up
with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when
it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just
threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room.
I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame
him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning
to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as
brisk and beaming as if I'd covered myself in glory.
"Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these
pleasant little MARCHEN together, and dig no more in that dry
book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble."
He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersons's fairy
tales so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than
ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that
seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and
pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might,
tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration
of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading
my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and
cried out in his hearty way, "Das ist gut!' Now we go well! My
turn. I do him in German, gif me your ear." And away he went,
rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which
was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the
CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER, which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,
and I did, though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
comical.
After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons
pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see
that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one
gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem
tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean
to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money.
Tell me something nice, Marmee.
I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given
up smoking and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him
better than I did. I'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only
don't make a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him
without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my
letters. I haven't time to write much, and that will do just
as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.
JANUARY
A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of
course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy.
I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle,
for i didn't get it till night and had given up hoping. Your
letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a
parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was disappointed,
for I'd had a `kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget me.
I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after
tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was
brought to me, I just hugged it and pranced. It was so
homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor and read
and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd
way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the better
for being made instead of bought. Beth's new `ink bib' was
capital, and Hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a
treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent,
Marmee, and read carefully the books Father has marked. Thank
you all, heaps and heaps!
Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
line, for on New Year's Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare.
It is one he values much, and I've often admired it,
set up in the place of honor with his German Bible, Plato,
Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he brought
it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it,
"from my friend Friedrich Bhaer".
"You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for
between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read
him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character
in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
with your pen."
I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about `my
library', as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much
there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer
to explain it to me. Now don't laugh at his horrid name. It
isn't pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people will say it,
but something between the two, as only Germans can give it.
I'm glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you
will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart,
Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new
`friend Friedrich Bhaer'.
Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got
several little things, and put them about the room, where he
would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or
funny, a new standish on his table, a little vase for his
flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to
keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower, so
that he needn't burn up what Amy calls `mouchoirs'. I made
it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body,
and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes.
It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece
as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all.
Poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the
house, and not a soul here, from the French laundrywoman to
Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.
They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's
Eve. I didn't mean to go down, having no dress. But at the
last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss
Norton lent me lace and feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs.
Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I
disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty
Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of
them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress,
and burst out into a `nice derangement of epitaphs, like an
allegory on the banks of the Nile'. I enjoyed it very much,
and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me. I
heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I'd been
an actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at
one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that joke. Mr.
Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little
fairy in his arms. To see them dance was `quite a landscape',
to use a Teddyism.
I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought
it over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in
spite of my many failures, for I'm cheerful all the time now,
work with a will, and take more interest in other people than
I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your
loving... Jo
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and
very busy with the daily work that earned her bread and made it
sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors.
The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one
to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain
her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power,
therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone,
but for those whom she loved more than life.
The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything
she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom,
going abroad herself, and always having more than enough,
so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been
for years Jo's most cherished castle in the air.
The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which
might, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this
delightful chateau en Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched
her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has
frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers.
Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first
attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of the
giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the `up again
and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more
booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious
than the moneybags.
She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark
ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one,
but concocted a `thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself
to Mr. Dashwood, editor of the Weekly Volcano. She had
never read Sartor Resartus, but she had a womanly instinct
that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many
than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself
that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two
pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly
room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen,
sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats,
which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove
on her appearance. somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated
on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment...
"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office.
I wished to see Mr. Dashwood."
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest
gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his
fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive
of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the
matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushing
redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments
of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.
"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as
an experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more
if this suits."
While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken
the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair
of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and
down the neat pages.
"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the
pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied
up with a ribbon--sure sign of a novice.
"No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize
for a tale in the BLARNEYSTONE BANNER."
"Oh, did she?" And Mr. Dashwood gave JO a quick look,
which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the
bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. "Well, you
can leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thing
on hand than we know what to do with at present, but I'll run
my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't
suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing
for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall
and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed.
Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the
knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little
fiction of `my friend' was considered a good joke, and a
laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving
never to return, she went home, and worked off her
irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an
hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long
for next week.
When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she
rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before,
which was agreeable and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed
in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second
interview was much more comfortable than the first.
"We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don't
object to a few alterations. It's too long, but omitting
the passages I've marked will make it just the right length,"
he said, in a businesslike tone.
Jo hardly knew her own MS again, so crumpled and underscored
were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender
patent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in
order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the
marked passages and was surprised to find that all the moral
reflections--which she had carefully put in as ballast for
much romance--had been stricken out.
"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of
a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for
Jo had forgotten her `friend', and spoken as only an author
could.
"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals
don't sell nowadays." Which was not quite a correct statement,
by the way.
"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"
"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language
good, and so on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.
"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not
exactly knowing how to express herself.
"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for
things of this sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood,
as if that point had escaped him. Such trifles do escape
the editorial mind, it is said.
"Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back the
story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work,
even twenty-five seemed good pay.
"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one
better than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of
the tongue, and emboldened by her success.
"Well, we'll look at it. Can't promise to take it. Tell her
to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name
would your friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.
"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to
appear and has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of
herself.
"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week.
Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood,
who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
"I'll call. Good morning, Sir."
As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury
her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.
Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters
and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses
appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as
much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers
were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation,
and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to
fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary
to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the
fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had
basely left him in the lurch.
She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated
purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take
Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as
the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and
that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling
that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have
her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to
keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr.
Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised
to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.
She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely
meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and
quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the
happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over
her well-kept secret.
But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as
thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls
of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and
art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked
for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience
had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which
underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy.
Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched
newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited
the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on
poisons. She studied faces in the street, and characters,
good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved in
the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that
they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,
and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She
thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was
beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a
woman's character. She was living in bad society, and imaginary
though it was, its influence affected her, for she was
feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food,
and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by
a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which
comes soon enough to all of us.
She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much
describing of other people's passions and feelings set her
to studying and speculating about her own. a morbid amusement
in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge.
Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when Jo
most needed hers, she got it.
I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her
to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what
was honest, brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary
heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering
a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imperfections.
Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised
her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she
found them, as good training for a writer. Jo took him at his
word, for she coolly turned round and studied him--a proceeding
which would have much surprised him, had he know it, for the
worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.
Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He
was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect
what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet
he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to
gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was
poor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; a
stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but
as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face
looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven
for his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover
the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which
worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, `it sat with its
head under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to the
world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed
to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials
of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never
cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp
that was more expressive than words.
His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature
of the wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked
to make him comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive
of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat had a social
air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands
often went in empty and came out full. His very boots were
benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other people's.
"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered
that genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify
and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner,
darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.
Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most
feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which
she made about the Professor added much to her regard for him.
He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his
native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for
learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him.
He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it,
and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told
it. She felt proud to know that he was an honored Professor
in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America,
and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the
spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in
a most unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into
most society, which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but
for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious
girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo
and the Professor. She took them with her one night to a select
symposium, held in honor of several celebrities.
Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones
whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But
her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night,
and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that
the great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagine
her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the
poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on `spirit,
fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning
as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which
rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist
vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum;
the famous divine flirted openly with one of the
Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering
her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed
tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the
lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities,
forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about
art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with
characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming
the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen
of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary
man of the party.
Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely
disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself.
Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element,
and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his
hobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in
the recess. The conversations were miles beyond Jo's comprehension,
but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown
gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, and
the only thing `evolved from her inner consciousness' was a
bad headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually
that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on
new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles
than before, that religion was in a fair way to be
reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only
God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any
sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful,
came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned
adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.
She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and
found him looking at her with the grimest expression she had
ever seen him wear. He shook his head and beckoned her to
come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom
of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find
out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after
they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his
own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere
and earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo
to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy
of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed
to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be
led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.
He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed
to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and
defended religion with all the eloquence of truth--an eloquence
which made his broken English musical and his plain
face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued
well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his
colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long,
seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force, and
immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She
felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and
when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced,
Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave
the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him
an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience
would not let him be silent. She began to see that character
is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty,
and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined
it to be, `truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend
friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.
This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem,
she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship,
and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near to
losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one
evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a
paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and
he had forgotten to take off.
"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming
down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening,"
and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous
contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was
going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.
She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh
out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she
left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all
about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing
occupation. After the reading came the lesson, which
was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and
the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The
Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at
last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible
...
"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face?
Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"
"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take
your hat off?" said Jo.
Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor
gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a
minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry
bass viol.
"Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a
fool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this
lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him."
But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because
Mr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it,
said with great disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house.
They are not for children to see, nor young people to read.
It is not well, and I haf no patience with those who make this harm."
Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration
composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villian, and a viper. She
did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over
was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute
she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not, however,
and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it
had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have
been no name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however,
by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the
Professor saw a good deal more than people fancied. He
knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the newspaper
offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it,
he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her
work. Now it occurred to him that she was doing what she
was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say to
himself, "It is none of my business. I've no right to say
anything," as many people would have done. He only remembered
that she was young and poor, a girl far away from
mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help
her with an impulse as quick and natural as that which
would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from
a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute,
but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the
time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he
was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely...
"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think
that good young girls should see such things. They are made
pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowder
to play with than this bad trash."
"All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there
is a demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it.
Many very respectable people make an honest living out of
what are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathers
so energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin.
"There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do
not care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm
they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. They
haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small
ones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in
the street before they do this thing."
Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling
the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire
had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked
hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.
"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered
the Professor, coming back with a relieved air.
Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would
make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience
at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself,
"Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad,
so I won't be worried," and taking up her book, she said,
with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be very
good and proper now."
"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than
she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her
feel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in large
type on her forehead.
As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers,
and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little
shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo
had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the
fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the Professor's
mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these
poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.
"They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go
on, for each is more sensational than the last. I've gone
blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of
money. I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober
earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should
I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?"
Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle
into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense.
I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other
people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as
she watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black
cinder with fiery eyes.
But when nothing remained of all her three month's work
except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked
sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to
do about her wages.
"I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this
to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding
impatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so
inconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right, and didn't
feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally.
I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn't
been so particular about such things."
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that `Father
and Mother were particular'. and pity from your heart those
who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles
which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth,
but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon
in womanhood.
Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the
money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going
to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp,
she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah
More, and then produced a tale which might have been more
properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral
was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for
her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the
new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff
and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic
gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser,
and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals
didn't sell.
Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have
disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy
lucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make it
worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman
who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his
particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children,
Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as
being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did
not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants
who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded
gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life
with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothing
came of these trials, land Jo corked up her inkstand, and
said in a fit of very wholesome humility...
"I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try
again, and meantime, `sweep mud in the street' if I can't do
better, that's honest, at least." Which decision proved that
her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.
While these internal revolutions were going on, her external
life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she
sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed
it but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never
knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by
his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for
though no words passed between them, he knew that she had
given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that
the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but
she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among
newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which
assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with
something useful, if not pleasant.
He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend,
and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning
other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the
sensation story of her own life.
It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not
leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time
came. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair
stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it
wildly when disturbed in mind.
"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go
in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his
beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last
evening.
She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight,
and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't
forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you?
I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my
friend."
"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with
an eager expression which she did not see.
"Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd
enjoy commencement as something new."
"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in
an altered tone.
"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like
you to see him."
Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her
own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another.
Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that
she might find Laurie more than a `best friend', and simply
because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was
the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she
tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina
on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her.
Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to
hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it.
But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety
to its usual expression, as he said cordially...
"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend
much success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that,
he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.
But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire
with the tired look on his face and the `heimweh', or homesickness,
lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered
Jo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that new
softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute,
and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something
that he could not find.
"It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself,
with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching
himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went
and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his
seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato.
He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found
that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato,
were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.
Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see
Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with
the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a
bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy
thought, "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books,
earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'll
try to keep him all my life."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to
some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and
gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the
eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were
all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March,
John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the
sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but
fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.
"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall
be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual,
girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage
after the joys of the day were over. He said `girls', but he
meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom.
She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy
anything, and answered warmly...
"I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you,
playing `Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."
Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a
sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and
then what shall I do?"
Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her
fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough
to think people were going to propose when she had given them
every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth
at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to
make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and a
refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw
a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong
desire to turn about and run away.
"Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as
he was within speaking distance.
"I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation
could not be called loverlike.
She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now
she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign,
but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects,
till they turned from the road into the little path that led
homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly
lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful
pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of
the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"
"I intend to."
Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to
find him looking down at her with an expression that assured
her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand
with an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!"
"I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got
to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he
answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
"Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a
desperate sort of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant
to `have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into
the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice
that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to
keep it steady . ..
"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help
it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you
wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an
answer, for I can't go on so any longer."
"I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand...
began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
"I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know
what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a
man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie,
entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.
"I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and
I went away to keep you from it if I could."
"I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I
only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you,
and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and
waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though
I'm not half good enough..." Here there was a choke that
couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he
cleared his `confounded throat'.
"You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and
I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't
know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but
I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do
when I don't."
"Really, truly, Jo?"
He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put
his question with a look that she did not soon forget.
"Really, truly, dear."
They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when
the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped
her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life
the fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down
on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.
"Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill
myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it
so hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for people
to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo
inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder,
remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.
"They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.
"I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd
rather not try it," was the decided answer.
There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on
the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind.
Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of
the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."
He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and
cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear
it now!"
"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.
"That you love that old man."
"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his
grandfather.
"That devilish Professor you were always writing about.
If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate."
And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched
his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.
Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly,
for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear,
Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and
the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into
a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if
you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving
him or anybody else."
"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"
"You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and
forget all this trouble."
"I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo,
Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.
"What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions
were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard
what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I
want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe
him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing
about love.
Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself
down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower
step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face.
Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear
thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her
boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing,
and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness
of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away,
saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to
grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure!
"I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each
other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably
make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..."
Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it
with a rapturous expression.
"Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should
be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."
"No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk
our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and
we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we
won't go and do anything rash."
"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously.
"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,"
implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.
"I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you
call `a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes
it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart."
"I wish I hadn't."
There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a
good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive
powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had
never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint
us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon
it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say
you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"
Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had
the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had
made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and
never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing
that delay was both useless and cruel.
"I can't say `yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll
see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she
began solemnly.
"I'll be hanged if I do!" And Laurie bounced up off the
grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.
"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after
a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore
you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't.
I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed
of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see-and
I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd
hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we
should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything
would be horrid!"
"Anything more?" asked asked Laurie, finding it hard to
listen patiently to this prophetic burst.
"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever
marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to
be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."
"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now,
but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and
you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I
know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by
and see it." And the despairing lover cast his hat upon the
ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his
face had not been so tragic.
"Yes, I will live and die for him, if her ever comes and
makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best
you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've
done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish
of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always
be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never
marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both
of us--so now!"
That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a
minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself,
then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone,
"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."
"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.
"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.
For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself
down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin
or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie
was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single
failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but
some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat,
and row away with all his might, making better time up the
river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to
outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.
"That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a
tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him."
she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she
had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the
leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very
kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may
in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh
dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I
think it's dreadful."
Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she
went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely
through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own
insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed,
did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand
how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would
change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love
cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved
to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's
parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.
When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his
grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the
delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they
sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so
much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual,
and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of
the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's
labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to
his piano and began to play. The window's were open, and Jo,
walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music
better than her sister, for he played the `SONATA PATHETIQUE',
and played it as he never did before.
"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make
one cry. Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence,
whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to
show but knew not how.
Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for
several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a
momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,
"Jo, dear, come in. I want you."
Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning!
As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken
chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.
"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he
got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either
of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I
know, my boy, I know."
No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who
told you?"
"Jo herself."
"Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather's
hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful
for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.
"Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall
be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness.
"You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?"
"I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent
my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,"
interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone.
"Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed,
but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left
for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?"
"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me." And Laurie
got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's
ear.
"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's
sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"
"I can't."
"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should
when you got through college."
"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" And Laurie walked
fast through the room with an expression which it was well
his grandfather did not see.
"I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready and
glad to go with you, anywhere in the world."
"Who, Sir?' stopping to listen.
"Myself."
Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his
hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know-Grandfather--"
"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all
before, once in my own young days, and then with your father.
Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's
all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence,
keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break
away as his father had done before him.
"Well, sir, what is it?" And Laurie sat down, without a
sign of interest in face or voice.
"There is business in London that needs looking after. I
meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself,
and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage
them. My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding
on until you take my place, and can be off at any time."
"But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you at
your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice,
but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.
The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly
desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his
grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to
his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought
of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,
Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the
idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for
traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."
A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair
was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the
old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden.
I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was
left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave
you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own
way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to
visit them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland,
where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery,
and adventures to your heart's content."
Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely
broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound
of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced
into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected
leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling
wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,
"Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do."
"It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire
liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise
me that, Laurie."
"Anything you like, Sir."
"Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now,
but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out
of mischief, or I'm much mistaken."
Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while
the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit
enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for
preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do
in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns,
lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time
to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoled
himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic
face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never
spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not
even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On
some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks
before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced
that the `poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his
trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly at
their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of
one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.
When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal
certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert
themselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they
tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well
till Mrs. March kissed him, whit a whisper full of motherly
solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily
embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and
ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to
wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came
back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him,
and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent
and pathetic.
"Oh, Jo, can't you?"
"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"
That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened
himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without
another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for
while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer,
she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left
her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never
would come again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with
the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it,
for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her
daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and
a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face.
It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet
there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal
was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through
the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no
one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in
other cares Jo fora time forgot her fear.
But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the
vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed
her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings
and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily,
but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little
visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma
could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth
down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the
open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color
into her pale cheeks.
It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant
people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for
one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too
wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in
all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the
interest they exited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic
eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always
together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation
was not far away.
They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between
ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve
which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil
had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out
her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the
silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and
was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what
she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so
plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing
that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better.
She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard
truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during
the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in
Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea
made music at her feet.
One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay
so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with
wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on
Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her,
for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble
to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting.
It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was
slowly drifting away form her, and her arms instinctively
tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.
For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they
cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was
hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know
it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't."
There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her
own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not
cry. She was the weaker then, land Beth tried to comfort and
sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words
she whispered in her ear.
"I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used
to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so
and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is."
"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You
did not feel it then, land keep it to yourself so long, did you?"
asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to
know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble.
"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it.
I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it
trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong and
full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be
like you, and then I was miserable, Jo."
"Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and
help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"
Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached
to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while
Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and live, and take
up her cross so cheerfully.
"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure,
no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have
been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about
Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought
so then."
"And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because
I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.
Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite
of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was
afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of
lovelornity all that while."
"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked
Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is
so good to me, how can I help It? But he could never be anything
to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime."
"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him,
and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such
things, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth.
You must get well."
"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little,
and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the
tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped.."
"It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen
is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray
and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There
must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to
take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was
far less piously submissive than Beth's.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It
shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence
than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or
explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up
life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she
asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father
and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only,
could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and
the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches,
only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung
more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never
means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to
Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very
sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be willing,"
while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell
them this when we go home?"
"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now
it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.
"Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are
often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell
them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare
them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must
stand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?"
"If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe
that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true."
said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,
"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone
but you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean
to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should
live long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans
about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married,
as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything
but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere
but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is
the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should
be homesick for you even in heaven."
Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no
sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A
white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its
silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes
were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping
over the beach `peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying
the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her
with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet
feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for
the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind
her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps
better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but
they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them
my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me
--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and
always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are
the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind,
flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove,
and Amy is like the lark she write about, trying to get
up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest
again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is
good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never
will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems
so far away."
"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be
all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and
rosy by that time." began Jo, feeling that of all the changes
in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to
cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike
bashful Beth.
"Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm
sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together
while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much,
and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me."
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that
silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
She was right. There was no need of any words when they
got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had
prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey,
Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home,
and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the
hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning
his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in,
but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo
went to comfort her without a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world
at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place,
for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs,
is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive,
lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and
the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many
costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant
as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans,
handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans,
all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticzing
the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor
Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as
varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the
low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair
of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from
overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch
behind.
Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked
slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression
of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an
Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination
which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly
after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with
rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their
buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches.
There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took
little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde
girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and
stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and
listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the
beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies feet made him
look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single
young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young,
blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole
face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward
to meet her.
"Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!"
cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the
great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's
steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners
of these `mad English'.
"I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas
with you, and here I am."
"How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you
staying?"
"Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your
hotel, but you were out."
"I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get
in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and
longing for company. Flo's saving up for tonight."
"What happens then, a ball?"
"A Christmas party at out hotel. There are many Americans
there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us,
of course? Aunt will be charmed."
"Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and
folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred
to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white
ponies backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.
"I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to
Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks.
Have you ever been there?"
"Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it."
"Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you,
your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin."
"Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris,
where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and
finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we got on capitally."
"That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something
in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.
"Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still,
so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often
with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that
someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty
old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust as they drove
along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city.
"The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the
hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets
are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to
pass. It's going to the Church of St. John."
While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests
under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers,
and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched
him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was
changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in
the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and
greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure
at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick,
nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of
prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it
and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and
touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the
arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.
"Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had
improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
"That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the
result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on
his heart and an admiring look.
She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did
not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at
home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and
tole her she was `altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an
approving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone, for
though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.
"If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he's stay
a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and
discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.
At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving
the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the
shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly
as in June.
"Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to
go home, but they all say `stay'. So I do, for I shall never have
another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page.
"I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home,
and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and
happy, and enjoying so much, my dear."
He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as
he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart
was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly `my dear',
seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not
be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed and showed him
a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly
erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, `Genius
burns!'.
Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket `to keep it
from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter
Amy read him.
"This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents
in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at
night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort,
and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely
waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him
as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her
as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what
changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex
or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few
little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and
graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something
in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her
age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation,
which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but
her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still
held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign
polish.
Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,
but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried
away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the
sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh
color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a
prominent figure in the pleasant scene.
As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill,
Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and
said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and
the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the
lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best
of all, that speck far out to sea which they say ils Corsica?"
"I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without
enthusiasm.
"What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said
Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.
"Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to
see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made
interesting in his sight.
"Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell
me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said
Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk.
But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered
all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved
about the Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an
hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs.
Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.
It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that
night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people.
She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as `our boy', but as
a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural
desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and
made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to
a poor and pretty woman.
Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself
in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion
of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes
with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices,
which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed
that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged
in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies.
But, dear heart, we all have out little weaknesses, and find it
easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their
comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.
"I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,"
said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress,
and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her
white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect.
Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the
thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head.
"It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to
make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle,
puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded.
Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion,
Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and
framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering
the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with
girlish satisfaction, and chassed down the room, admiring her
aristocratic feet all by herself.
"My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm,
and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress.
If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,"
she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in
each hand.
In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and
graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran--it did not suit her
style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was
more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and
down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged
herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her
hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other
end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the
first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not
have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she
did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with
her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the
slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective
as a well-placed statue.
"Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction
she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.
"Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him,
for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of
entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man
caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom
of her heart.
"Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering
that you didn't like what Hannah calls a `sot-bookay', said
Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she
had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window.
"How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd
known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today,
though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid."
"Thank you. It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it,"
he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.
"Please don't."
"I thought you liked that sort of thing."
"Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your
old bluntness better."
"I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then
buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight,
just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home.
The company assembled in the long salle a manger that
evening was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The
hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had
in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few
to add luster to their Christmas ball.
A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an
hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother
in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish
count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced
him, `a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something,
having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what
he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a largenosed
Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if
his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout
Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for
dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene
with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many
light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking
English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles,
likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen
who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations
lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced
with their daughters.
Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she
`took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She
knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her
foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the
delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first
discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by
virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the
Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort,
except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she
bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which
was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and
burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking
friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's
color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the
floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to
know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be
imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil
tone, "Do you care to dance?"
"One usually does at a ball."
Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair
his error as fast as possible.
"I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?"
"I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances
devinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said
Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show
Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.
"Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support . ..
A daughter of the gods,
Devinely tall, and most devinely fair,"
was all the satisfaction she got, however.
The set in which they found themselves was composed of
English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a
cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the
tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned her to the `nice little
boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for
the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was
properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till
supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence.
She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he
strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a
glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose
upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw
Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief.
That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him
for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to
her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a
moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she
hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and
brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she
neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and
grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He
very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of
view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that
`little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'.
It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social
season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made
all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians
fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody
danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their
neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises,
and many Jones gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The
golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with
a dashing frenchwoman who carped the floor with her pink satin
train. The serene Teuton found the supper table and was happy,
eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the
garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend
covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether
he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the
figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man
was charming to behold, for though he `carried weight', he
danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced,
his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly,
his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music
stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his
fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses.
Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm
but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself
involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the
white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged.
When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances
that he was `desolated to leave so early', she was ready to
rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.
It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted
affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves
will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise,
when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and
motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his
seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she
said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that
would do him good!"
"You look like Balzac's `FEMME PEINTE PAR ELLE-NENE',"
he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee
cup in the other.
"My rouge won't come off." And Amy rubbed her brilliant
cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity
that made him laugh outright.
"What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold
of her dress that had blown over his knee.
"Illusion."
"Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?"
"It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of
girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now?
Stupide!"
"I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake,
you see."
"None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee
than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."
Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate
feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having `little Amy' order
him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an
irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful
way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.
"Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with
a quizzical look.
"As `this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would
you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he
meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
"Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--
the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping
himself out of his quandary with the new word.
Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely
answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I
study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little gesture
toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for
nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things."
Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in
good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself
both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most
of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with
flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, now
why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself
to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner,
but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result
of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously
giving and receiving.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are
married, when `Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto. In America,
as everyone knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence,
and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons
usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a
seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means
as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put
upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most
of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day,
"I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because
I'm married."
Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not
experience this affliction till her babies were a year old,
for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she
found herself more admired and beloved than ever.
As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct
was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children,
to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day
and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and
anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for
an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being
a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he
had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he
cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with
masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored. But
three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg
looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of
her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took
life `aisy', kept him on short commons. When he went out in
the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive
mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his
family, he was quenched by a "Hush! They are just asleep after
worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home,
"No, it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture
or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a
decided "Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was
broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing
noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals
were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius,
who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from
the nest above. And when he read his paper of an evening,
Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected
the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.
The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had
bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual
`hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever
he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very
patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared,
he did what other paternal exiles do--tried to get a little comfort
elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not
far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour
or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his
own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs.
Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be
agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The
parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready,
the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper
set forth in tempting style.
John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not
been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best
thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society.
Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and
found it a relief to know that John was having a good time
instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house
and waking the children. But by-and-by, when the teething
worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours,
leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find
her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite
in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers
on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt
injured because he did not know that she wanted him without
being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited
for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching
and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best
of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress
them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much
devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them
feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.
"Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting
old and ugly. John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so
he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor,
who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me, they don't
care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair,
they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've
gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"
To which pathetic appeal daisy would answer with a coo,
or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for
a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being.
But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always
running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite
unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however,
till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted
on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping spirits had
not escaped her observation.
"I wouldn't tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really
do need advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well
be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's
bib with an injured air.
"Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously.
"He's away all day, and at night when I want to see him,
he is continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair
that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement.
Men are very selfish, even the best of them."
"So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you
are wrong yourself."
"But it can't be right for him to neglect me."
"Don't you neglect him?"
"Why, Mother, I thought you'd take my part!"
"So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault
is yours, Meg."
"I don't see how."
"Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it,
while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening,
his only leisure time?"
"No, but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend."
"I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I
speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who
blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?"
"Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again.
I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these
babies look to me for everything."
Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little
interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly
together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one
than ever.
"You have only made the mistake that most young wives make-forgotten
your duty to your husband in your love for your children.
A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that
had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for
children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as
if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support
them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling
sure it would come right in time."
"I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm
jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't
see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without
words."
"Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear,
he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you,
and you are always in the nursery."
"Oughtn't I to be there?"
"Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous,
and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe
something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband
for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach
him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and
the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, and
he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you
all."
"You really think so, Mother?"
"I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice
unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little,
I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless
I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books,
after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment
alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was
too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were
poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then
Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made
himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able
to got on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness.
He does not let business wean him from the little cares
and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries
destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in
many things, but at home we work together, always."
"It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband
and children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I'll do
anything you say."
"You were always my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were
you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi,
for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin.
Then I'd do what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and
help you. She is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious
babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise,
Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again.
Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the
sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no
fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John
likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and
help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox
because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and
educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it
all affects you and yours."
"John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if
I ask questions about politics and things."
"I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins,
and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and
see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs.
Scott's suppers."
"I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly,
but I thought I was right, and he never said anything."
"He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn,
I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people
are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be
most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless
care is taken to preserve it. And no time is so beautiful and
precious to parents as the first years of the little lives
given to them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the
babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in
this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and
through them you will learn to know and love one another as
you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachment,
act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all."
Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it,
though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned
to have it. Of course the children tyrannized over her, and
ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and
squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an
abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily
subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by
an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son.
For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character,
we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his
little to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and
all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little
mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer
his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too
soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that
when he undertook to `wrastle' with `Parpar', he always got
the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby respected the
man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No,
no," was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats.
A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved
to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a nice
supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and
put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere
with her experiment. But unfortunately Demi's most unconquerable
prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided
to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked,
told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could
devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long
after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch
of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light,
with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance.
"Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs
down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall
door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing
into the dining room.
"Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.
"No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast,
if you'll go bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?"
"Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep
and hurry the desired day.
Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped
away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face
and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial
admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise,
"Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight. Do you expect
company?"
"Only you, dear."
"No, I'm tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a
change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter
how tired you are, so why shouldn't I when I have the time?'
"I do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned John.
"Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young
and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.
"Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This
tastes right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his
tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short
duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle
rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently
...
"Opy doy. Me's tummin!"
"It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone,
and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering
over that canvas," said Meg, answering the call.
"Mornin' now," announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered,
with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and
every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing
the `cakies' with loving glances.
"No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not
trouble poor Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with
sugar on it."
"Me loves Parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb
the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook
his head, and said to Meg...
"If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone,
make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you."
"Yes, of course. Come, Demi." And Meg led her son away,
feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped
beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to
be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.
Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman
actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed,
and forbade any more promenades till morning.
"Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar,
and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing
pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again and exposed
the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "More sudar,
Marmar."
"Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against
the engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till
that child learns togo to bed properly. You have made a slave of
yourself long enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will
be an end of it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg."
"He won't stay there, he never does unless I sit by him."
"I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed,
as Mamma bids you."
"S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the
coveted `cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
"You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you
don't go yourself."
"Go 'way, me don't love Parpar." And Demi retired to his
mother's skirts for protection.
But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered
over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John,"
which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Mamma deserted
him, then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft of his cake,
defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to
that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but
openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the
way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he
rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be
ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and
put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the
young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to
roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually
conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is
popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no
lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the
red glow of the fire enlivened the `big dark' which Demi
regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order
of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for `Marmar',
as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his
tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The
plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to
Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly...
"Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John."
"No, my dear. I've told him he must go to sleep, as you
bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night."
"But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself
for deserting her boy.
"No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then
the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to
mind. Don't interfere, I'll manage him."
"He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness."
"He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by
indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."
When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed,
and never regretted her docility.
"Please let me kiss him once, John?"
"Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest,
for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."
Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory,
for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite
still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his
anguish of mind.
"Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll
cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest." thought
John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious
heir asleep.
But he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him,
Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put
up his arms, saying with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now."
Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long
silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all
sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to
set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual
spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in
the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger,
as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had
gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited
with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold,
and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle
with his son than with his whole day's work.
As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she
smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a
satisfied tone, "I never need fear that John will be too harsh
with my babies. He does know how to manage them, and will be
a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me."
When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive
or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg
placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request
to read something about the election, if he was not
too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some
kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing
that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't
keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would
soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable
readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner,
while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent
questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the
state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret
soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics,
and the the mission of politicians seemed to be calling
each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself,
and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she
thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what
we are coming to."
John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised
a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand,
and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue
had failed to waken.
"She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and
like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just,
adding aloud, "That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?"
"My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet."
"I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook
it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear.
How do you keep it on?"
"These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so."
And Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding
him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.
"It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for
it looks young and happy again." And John kissed the smiling
face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin.
"I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one
of the new concerts some night. I really need some music to
put me in tune. Will you, please?"
"Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you
like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of
good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into
your head, little mother?"
"Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told
her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she
said I needed change and less care, so Hannah is to help me
with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more,
and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting
to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It's
only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake
as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully
lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I
can. You don't object, I hope?"
Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape
the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any
business to know is that John did not appear to object, judging
from the changes which gradually took place in the house
and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but
everyone was better for the division of labor system. The
children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, stedfast
John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg
recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of
wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential
conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike
again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg
with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and everyone
found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness,
content, and family love. Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go
there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here, it does me
good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful
eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use
it in her great house, full of splendid lonliness, for there
were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in
a world of lis own, where there was no place for her.
This household happiness did not come all at once, but
John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of Married
life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries
of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest
may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort
of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be
laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world,
finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who
cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking
side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful
friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word,
the `house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's
happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling
it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained
a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's
familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the
foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the
`petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again,
for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half
so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy
never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to
see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the
representative of the dear family for whom she longed more
than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each
other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing,
or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during
the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in
the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making
discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose
daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers,
and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried
to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many
pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services
to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable
charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let
himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to
forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because
one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be
generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in
Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he
felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of
him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to
watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.
"All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred
to stay at home and write letters. They are done now,
and I am going to Valrosa to sketch, will you come?' said Amy,
as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual
about noon.
"Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?"
he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after
the glare without.
"I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can
drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella,
and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic
glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with
Laurie.
"Then I'll go with pleasure." And he put out his hand for
her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp...
"Don't trouble yourself. It's no exertion to me, but you
don't look equal to it."
Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace
as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took
the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold
his arms and fall asleep on his perch.
The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now
Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim
with an inquiring air. She answered him with a smile, and they
went on together in the most amicable manner.
It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque
scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient
monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to
them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat,
and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while
his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek,
mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass
passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the
green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went.
Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels
to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough.
Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage,
fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones
fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights,
the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky.
Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual
summer roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the
archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate
with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding
through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill.
Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was
a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling
from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white,
or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty.
Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed
the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace,
whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled
city on its shore.
"This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it? Did you
ever see such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy
the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.
"No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb
in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet
flower that grew just beyond his reach.
"Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said
Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred
the wall behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace
offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a
curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there
was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state
of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young
men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere.
He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for
vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that
from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were
the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal
wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or
for himself, but the next instant his American common sense got
the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh
than Amy had heard since he came.
"It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers,"
she said, thinking her speech amused him.
"Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months
later he did it in earnest.
"Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked
presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.
"Very soon."
"You have said that a dozen times within the last three
weeks."
"I dare say, short answers save trouble."
"He expects you, and you really ought to go."
"Hospitable creature! I know it."
"Then why don't you do it?"
"Natural depravity, I suppose."
"Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!"
And Amy looked severe.
"Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I
went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer,
you can bear it better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently."
And Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.
Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an
air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture
`that boy' and in a minute she began again.
"What are you doing just now?"
"Watching lizards."
"No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?"
"Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."
"How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars and I will only allow
it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a figure."
"With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full
length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should
respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself
in also and call it `Dolce far niente'."
"Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to
work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone.
"What delightful enthusiasm!" And he leaned against a tall
urn with an ir of entire satisfaction.
"What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently,
hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more
energetic sister's name.
"As usual, `Go away, Teddy. I'm busy!'" He laughed as he
spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over
his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the
wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy,
for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up
in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter
look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before
she could study it and the listless expression back again.
She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking
how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun
with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for
he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.
"You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his
tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined
against the dark stone.
"Wish I was!"
"That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life.
You are so changed, I sometimes think--" There Amy stopped,
with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her
unfinished speech.
Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which
she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes,
said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am."
That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun
to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed
that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said...
"I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad
boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked
Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman
with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men
seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't
stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and
`let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa
corner and told secrets."
Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and
began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of
Amy's hat, that lay there.
"I'm all ready for the secrets." And he glanced up with
a decided expression of interest in his eyes.
"I've none to tell. You may begin."
"Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd
had some news from home.."
"You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear
often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes."
"She's very busy. I'm roving about so, it's impossible to
be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art,
Raphaella?' he asked. changing the subject abruptly after
another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his
secret and wanted to talk about it.
"Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air.
"Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the
wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up
all my foolish hopes in despair."
"Why should you, with so much energy and talent?"
"That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no
amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing.
I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more."
"And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?"
"Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society,
if I get the chance."
It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but
audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good
foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with
which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one
died, and spent no time lamenting.
"Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy."
Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious
look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,
"Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?"
"I don't promise to answer."
"Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of
the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard
rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion
that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained
so long, something would have come of it, hey?"
"That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips
would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye
which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.
"You are not engaged, I hope?" And Laurie looked very
elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.
"No."
"But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down
on his knees, won't you?"
"Very likely."
"Then you are fond of old Fred?"
"I could be, if I tried."
"But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless
my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but
not the man I fancied you'd like."
"He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners,"
began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling
a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her
intentions.
"I understand. Queens of society can't get on without money,
so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite
right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the
lips of one of your mother's girls."
"True, nevertheless."
A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was
uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie
felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a
sense of disappointment which he could not explain. His look
and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval,
ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture
without delay.
"I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little,"
she said sharply.
"Do it for me, there's a dear girl."
"I could, if I tried." And she looked as if she would like
doing it in the most summary style.
"Try, then. I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed
having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from
his favorite pastime.
"You'd be angry in five minutes."
"I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire.
You are as cool and soft as snow."
"You don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle,
if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation,
and a good stirring up would prove it."
"Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the
big man said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the
light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired,
if that sort of exercise agrees with you."
Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him
shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both
tongue and pencil, and began.
"Flo and I have got a new name for you. It's Lazy Laurence.
How do you like it?"
She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his
arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad.
Thank you, ladies."
"Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"
"Pining to be told."
"Well, I despise you."
If she had even said `I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish
tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but
the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his
eyes, and ask quickly...
"Why, if you please?"
"Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and
happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable."
"Strong language, mademoiselle."
"If you like it, I'll go on."
"Pray do, it's quite interesting."
"I thought you'd find it so. Selfish people always like to
talk about themselves."
"Am I selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and
in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided
himself was generosity.
"Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice,
twice as effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you
how, for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm
not at all satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad
nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money
and disappoint your friends."
"Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year
grind?"
"You don't look as if you'd had much. At any rate, you are
none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we
first met that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I
don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You
have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on
frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired
by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise
ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah
you like that old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't help
saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you
can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man
you ought to be, you are only..." There she stopped, with
a look that had both pain and pity in it.
"Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly
finishing the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect,
for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a
half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference.
"I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are
angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant
we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't
listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy
spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating
martyr at her feet.
In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she
could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation
of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be good!"
But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping
on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't
you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a
woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's
best gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy,
thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big
seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long
ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!"
"So do I!"
The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was
energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She
glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he
was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and
his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his chest rise and
fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the
hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to
hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of.
All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and
significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never
had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke
voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just
now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little
old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are
quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had
fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the
alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled,
and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be
beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.
"I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if
you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be
very angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you,
I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at
home as I have been, though, perhaps they would understand
the change better than I do."
"I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim
tone, quite as touching as a broken one.
"They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering
and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient
than ever. I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate
her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time.
"Hang Miss Randal!" And Laurie knocked the hat off his
face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward
that young lady.
"I beg pardon, I thought..." And there she paused
diplomatically.
"No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for
anyone but Jo," Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone,
and turned his face away as he spoke.
"I did think so, but as they never said anything about it,
and you came away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn't
be kind to you? Why, I was sure she loved you dearly."
"She was kind, but not in the right way, and it's lucky for
her she didn't love me, if I'm the good-for-nothing fellow you
think me. It's her fault though, and you may tell her so."
The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and
it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.
"I was wrong, I didn't know. I'm very sorry I was so cross,
but I can't help wishing you'd bear it better, Teddy, dear."
"Don't, that's her name for me!" And Laurie put up his
hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo's
half-kind, half-reproachful tone. "Wait till you've tried it
yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass
by the handful.
"I'd take it manfully, and be respected if i couldn't be
loved," said Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing
about it.
Now, Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably
well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his
trouble away to live it down alone. Amy's lecture put the
Matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look
weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut
himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if suddenly
shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go
to sleep again. Presently he sat up and asked slowly, "Do
you think Jo would despise me as you do?"
"Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don't
you do something splendid, and make her love you?"
"I did my best, but it was no use."
"Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you
ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake. It would
have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and
money, when everyone knew that you could do well."
"I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn't love me,"
began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent
attitude.
"No, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did
you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried.
If you'd only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon
be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."
"That's impossible."
"Try it and see. You needn't shrug your shoulders, and
think, `Much she knows about such things'. I don't pretend
to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more
than you'd imagine. I'm interested in other people's experiences
and inconsistencies, and though I can't explain, I remember
and use them for my own benefit. Love Jo all your days,
if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked
to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the
one you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know
you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."
Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning
the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to
the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked.
Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying, "How do you
like that?"
He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help
doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the
grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding
a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled
the dreamer's head.
"How well you draw!" he said, with a genuine surprise
and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh,
"Yes, that's me."
"As you are. This is as you were." And Amy laid another
sketch beside the one he held.
It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and
spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the
past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young
man's face as he looked. Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming
a horse. Hat and coat were off, and every line of the active
figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of
energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood
arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot
impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if
listening for the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled
mane. The rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a
suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage,
and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine
grace of the `DOLCE FAR NIENTE' sketch. Laurie said nothing
but as his eye went from one to the other, Amy say him flush
up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the
little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her, and
without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly
way...
"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck,
and we all looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo
clapped and pranced, and I sat on the fence and drew you. I
found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it
up, and kept it to show you."
"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then,
and I congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in ` a
honeymoon paradise' that five o'clock is the dinner hour at
your hotel?"
Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile
and a bow and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that
even moral lectures should have an end. He tried to resume his
former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for
the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess. Amy
felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself . ..
"Now, I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm
glad, if it makes him hate me, I'm sorry, but it's true, and
I can't take back a word of it."
They laughed and chatted all the way home, and little
Baptist, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle
were in charming spirits. But both felt ill at ease. The
friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow
over it, and despite their apparent gaiety, there was a secret
discontent in the heart of each.
"Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?" asked Amy, as
they parted at her aunt's door.
"Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle."
And Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion,
which became him better than many men. Something in his face
made Amy say quickly and warmly...
"No, be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way.
I'd rather have a hearty English handshake than all the
sentimental salutations in France."
"Goodbye, dear." And with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,
Laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.
Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a
note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.
My Dear Mentor,
Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within
yourself, for `Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like
the best of boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods
grant you a blissful honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred
would be benefited by a rouser. Tell him so, with my congratulations.
Yours gratefully, Telemachus
"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile.
The next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room,
adding, with an involuntary sigh, "Yes, I am glad, but how I shall miss him."
CHAPTER FORTY
When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted
the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one
another by the increased affection which comes to bind households
tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away their grief,
and each did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.
The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth,
and in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers,
pictures, her piano, the little worktable, and the beloved
pussies. Father's best books found their way there, Mother's
easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest sketches, and every day
Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine
for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he
might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with
the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied
of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite,
dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came
little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths
of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat
Beth, tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the
sweet, unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave
life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain
behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her
pleasures was to make little things for the school children
daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her
window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small
mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through
forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and
all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of
the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as
it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy
godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously
suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any
reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up
to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters
which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often
used to look round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they
all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing
on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father
reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which
seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as
when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a paternal
priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying
to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation
possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of
those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's
religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double
eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them
as preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth
said the needle was `so heavy', and put it down forever. Talking
wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own,
and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills
that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long,
long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those
who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out
to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, "Help me, help me!"
and to feel that there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene
soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both were
mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion over, the old peace
returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her frail body,
Beth's soul grew strong, and though she said little, those about her
felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise
the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the
Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.
Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel
stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room,
waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the
patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and `tried not to
be a trouble'. All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other
nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life
ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her
heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience
were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them,
charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly
forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest
easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn
little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless
night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears
dropped through the transparent fingers, and Jo would lie watching
her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in
her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the
dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred
words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the
saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could
utter. For with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart
softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of
her sister's life--uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the
genuine virtues which `smell sweet, and blossom in the dust',
the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered
soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.
One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table,
to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that
was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of
her old favorite, Pilgrims's Progress, she found a little paper,
scribbled over in Jo's hand. The name caught her eye and the
blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen
on it.
"Poor Jo! She's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask
leave. She shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll
mind if I look at this", thought Beth, with a glance at her
sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready
to wake up the minute the log fell apart.
MY BETH
Sitting patient in the shadow
Till the blessed light shall come,
A serene and saintly presence
Sanctifies our troubled home.
Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
Break like ripples on the strand
Of the deep and solemn river
Where her willing feet now stand.
O my sister, passing from me,
Out of human care and strife,
Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
Which have beautified your life.
Dear, bequeath me that great patience
Which has power to sustain
A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
In its prison-house of pain.
Give me, for I need it sorely,
Of that courage, wise and sweet,
Which has made the path of duty
Green beneath your willing feet.
Give me that unselfish nature,
That with charity devine
Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--
Meek heart, forgive me mine!
Thus our parting daily loseth
Something of its bitter pain,
And while learning this hard lesson,
My great loss becomes my gain.
For the touch of grief will render
My wild nature more serene,
Give to life new aspirations,
A new trust in the unseen.
Henceforth, safe across the river,
I shall see forever more
A beloved, household spirit
Waiting for me on the shore.
Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
Guardian angels shall become,
And the sister gone before me
By their hands shall lead me home.
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they
brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one
regret had been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure
her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring
the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her
hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze,
and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.
"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it.
I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she
asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.
"OH, Beth, so much, so much!" And Jo's head went down upon the
pillow beside her sister's.
"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good
as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's
too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know
that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."
"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I
couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose
you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part
us, though it seems to."
"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm
sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than
ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father
and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail
them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember that I don't
forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing
splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing
that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the go easy."
"I'll try, Beth." And then and there Jo renounced her old
ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging
the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of
a belief in the immortality of love.
So the spring days came and went , the sky grew clearer, the
earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds
came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but
trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life,
as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of
the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words,
see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those
who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end
comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the
`tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before dawn, on
the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly
drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little
sigh.
With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters
made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again,
seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced
the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and
feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death was a
benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.
When morning came, for the first time in many months the
fire was out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still.
But a bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops
blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed
in like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow,
a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best
smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did
not own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women
are the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice
till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they
intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds,
they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it
fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back
to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several
weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had
improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again.
There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better,
but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding
he had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing
grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating
the words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you."
"Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."
Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon
brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy,
but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged
in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt
that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though
he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was
no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn't
love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing
something which should prove that a girl's no had not spoiled
his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's
advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till
the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred.
That being done, he felt that he was ready to `hide his
stricken heart, and still toil on'.
As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song,
so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to
compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the
heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman
found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off,
he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to
work with the firm determination to distinguish himself. But
whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or
music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered
that the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident
that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas
needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain,
he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled
the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman,
and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.
Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in
the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset
him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory
to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions
of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed
by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's
oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most
unsentimental aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in
a bandana, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing
cold water over his passion a la Gummidge--and an irresistable
laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to
paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he
had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!"
and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.
When he looked about him for another and a less intractable
damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the
most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it
always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and
floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses,
peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the
complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and
grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with
every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed,
through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.
Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time,
but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose,
while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city
to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be
in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much,
but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of
some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering,
perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said,
with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, but
something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to
some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his
desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work
to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion
that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning
from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at
the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the
best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven,
and bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he
tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered
out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...
"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it
so. That music has taken the vanity out of my as Rome took it
out of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall
I do?"
That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to
wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred
an eligible opportunity for `going to the devil', as he once
forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing
to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment
for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations
enough from without and from within, but he withstood them
pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good
faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather,
and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of
the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe
and steady.
Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it,
boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats,
and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you don't,
Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work
a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may
perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the
longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats
if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to
make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling
the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in
the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest
in good women's eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave us
to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and
the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would
embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads,
who still love their mothers better than themselves and are
not ashamed to own it.
Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo
would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise
he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe
it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it,
but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and
time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart
wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity
that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found
himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of
affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a
queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could
recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully
stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to
burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow that
warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever,
and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish
passion was slowly subbsiding into a more tranquil sentiment,
very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was
sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection
which would last unbroken to the end.
As the word `brotherly' passed through his mind in one
of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of
Mozart that was before him...
"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have
one sister he took the other, and was happy."
Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and
the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,
"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again,
and if that fails, why then...
Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper
and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything
while there was the least hope of her changing her mind.
Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let him come home and be happy?
While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it
energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came
at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth,
and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged
him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little
corner of his ghart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript
she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was
coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening
the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please
God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel
lonely, homesick or anxious.
"So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad
going home for her, I'm afraid." And Laurie opened his desk,
as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the
sentence left unfinished some weeks before.
But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged
out his best paper, he came across something which
changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk
among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds
were several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment were
three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue
ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put
away inside. with a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put
them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute
turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew
it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went
out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there
had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than
in writing letters to charming young ladies.
The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered,
for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most
delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished
famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity
all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made
allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody
would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go
to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not
ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of
her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical
eyes of `out boy'.
Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which
she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she
said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the time
came, her courage failed her, and she found that something
more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new
longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and
fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all
the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face
when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously
as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I
shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that
now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly.
She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now
half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was
so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said,
but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His
letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very
irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did
come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them,
for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo
persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an
effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard,
many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy
care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so
there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like
a brother.
If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at
this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than
they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on
all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made
charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters
a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and
captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few
brothers are complimented by having their letters carried
about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently,
cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully,
we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and
foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale
and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society,
and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much
to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare
say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the
terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that
occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young
man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly
haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on
the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur
according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not
altogether satisfactory.
Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred,
and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy
left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie
should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but
he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself,
with a venerable air . ..
"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow!
I've been through it all, and I can sympathize."
With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had
discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa
and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously.
While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had
come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failing
never reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, for
the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled
slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian
lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the
family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for
since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better
stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was
very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked
wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and
comfort her.
He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters
to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to
reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack,
bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his
promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.
He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the
little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the
Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair
that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the
lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau
garden. If monsier would give himself the pain of sitting
down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could
not wait even a `flash of time', and in the middle of the
speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.
A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake,
with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and
the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny
water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here
Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the
beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning
her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She
did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause
in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the
garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing
what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy's character.
Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,
the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up
her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the
little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie,
for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament.
If he had any doubts about the reception she would give
him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw
him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a
tone of unmistakable love and longing...
"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"
I think everything was said and settled then, for as they
stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head
bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no
one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and
Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who
could fill Jo's place and make him happy. He did not tell her
so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she
dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers,
finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive
sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her,
amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of
her impulsive greeting.
"I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so
very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find
you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said,
trying in vain to speak quite naturally.
"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something
to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only
feel, and..." He could not get any further, for her too
turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to
say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell
her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand
instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than
words.
"You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said
softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back,
but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all.
We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want
to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right back, need
you?"
"Not if you want me, dear."
"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you
seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to
have you for a little while."
Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart
was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and
gave her just what she wanted--the petting she was used to and
the cheerful conversation she needed.
"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself
half sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any
more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly
for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing,
half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat,
drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at
ease upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong
arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind
voice to talk delightfully for her alone.
The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers,
and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was
it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide
lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by
below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested
on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a
charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of
lonliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she
was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself,
"Now I understand it all--the child has been pining for young
Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!"
With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing,
and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged
Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it
would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a
model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied
with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
with more than her usual success.
At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At
Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding,
boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, while
Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as
far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing
to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad
of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise
worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies.
They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there
among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away
desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The
warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas,
tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash
away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains
to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children,
love one another."
In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so
happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It
took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the
cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last
and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty
by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's
self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible
to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first
wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back
upon ;it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of
compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it,
but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his
life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over.
His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple
as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly
any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without
words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came
about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that
everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little
passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making
a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour,
and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would
put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.
He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place
in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and
decorus manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the
matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words.
They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy
St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side,
Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in
the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue
sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque
boats that look like white-winged gulls.
They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past
Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he
wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was a
love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting
as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water
during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked
up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes
that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something . .
"You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,
for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."
"I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's
room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the
boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangment.
Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the
offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted
an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though
she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and
the boat went smoothly through the water.
"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected
to silence just then.
"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat.
Will you, Amy?" very tenderly.
"Yes, Laurie," very low.
Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a
pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving
views reflected in the lake.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was
wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a
sweet example. But when the helpful voice was silent, the
daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained
but lonliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very
hard to keep. How could she `comfort Father and Mother' when
her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister,
how could she `make the house cheerful' when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the
old home for the new, and where in all the world could she `find
some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the
loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a
blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against
it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should
be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and
harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine,
and some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried more
than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment,
trouble and hard work.
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like
despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life
in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures,
and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it.
I wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away
and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me,"
she said to herself, when her first efforts failed and she fell
into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when
strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.
But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize
her good angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used
the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started
up at night, thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the
little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive
sorrow, "Oh, Beth, come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out
her yearning arms in vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as
she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came
to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness
that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater
grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers,
because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow.
Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the
night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and
strengthned love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear,
duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the
safe shelter of her mother's arms.
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise
found help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning
over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile,
she said very humbly, "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I
need it more than she did, for I'm all wrong."
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered,
with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too,
needed help, and did not fear to ask for it.
Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told
her troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless
efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look
so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She
gave him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and
both found consolation in the act. For the time had come when they
could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man and
woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well
as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which
Jo called `the church of one member', and from which she came with
fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit.
For the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear,
were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency
or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude
and power.
Other helps had Jo--humble, wholesome duties and delights that
would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly
learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could
be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided
over both, and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to
linger around the little mop and the old brush, never thrown
away. As she used them, Jo found herself humming the songs
Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the
little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though
she didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze
of the hand...
"You thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss
that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we
see it, and the Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't."
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved
her sister Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew
about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy
she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing
for each other.
"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I
should blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said
Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in the topsy-turvy nursery.
"It's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half
of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside,
but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at
it. Love will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough
burr will fall off."
"Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma`am, and it takes a good shake
to bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged
by them," returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that
blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old
spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every
argument in her power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially
as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies,
whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is the best opener of some hearts,
and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag. A little more sunshine to
ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand
reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernal
sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she would have shut up
tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately she wasn't
thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she dropped.
Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she
ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly,
renounced the world, and gone about doing good in a mortified
bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a
heroine, she was only a struggling human girl like hundreds of
others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless,
or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly virtuous
to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes
a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together before some
of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so far,
she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did
not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She
had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how
hard, and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful
than to devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home
as happy to them as they had to her? And if difficulties were
necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be
harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own
hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others?
Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not
what she had expected, but better because self had no part in it.
Now, could she do it? She decided that she would try, and in her
first attempt she found the helps I have suggested. Still another
was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort,
as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor
where he rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty.
"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy,"
said her mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.
"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my
things."
"We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of
the world. Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and
please us very much."
"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to
overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.
An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was,
scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression,
which caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased
with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it
happened, but something got into that story that went straight to
the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed
and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to
one of the popular magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was
not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several
persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends,
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo was
more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned
all at once.
"I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little
story like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos
make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote
with not thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it,
my daughter. You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do
your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success."
"If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't
mine. I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more
touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from
the world.
So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories,
and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding
it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were
kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother,
like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March
feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but
her fears were soon set at rest, for thought Jo looked grave at
first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans
for `the children' before she read the letter twice. It was a
sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in loverlike
fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of,
for no one had any objection to make.
"You like it, Mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely
written sheets and looked at one another.
"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she
had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than
what you call the `mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a
hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love
and Laurie would win the day."
"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said
a worked to me."
"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when
they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea
into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before
the thing was settled."
"I'm not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I'm
sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."
"So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine,
only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved
someone else."
"Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and
selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not
best?"
"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought
that if he came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like
giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that
you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your
eyes that goes to my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill
the empty place if he tried now."
"No, Mother, it is better as it ia, and I'm glad Amy has learned
to love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps
if Teddy had tried again, I might have said `Yes', not because
I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when
he went away."
"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on.
There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father
and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the
best lover of all comes to give you your reward."
"Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind
whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very
curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of
natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts
could take in so many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full
now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't
understand it."
"I do." And Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned
back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in
all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that
I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and
generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart,
and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and
am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he `could
make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of
love for ballast'. I pray he may, and try to be all he believes
me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and
might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together.
Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be,
when two people love and live for one another!"
"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love
does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo
laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one
might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader
fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday
world again.
By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she
could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old
feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully
patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other
nothing. It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away,
but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness
woke the hungry longing for someone to `love with heart
and soul, and cling to while God let them be together'.
Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood
four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners
name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood
ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to
her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the
chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught
her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and relived that
pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first,
then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a
little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began
to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking
at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched
a tender spot in her heart.
"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall
surely come."
"Oh, if he only would! So kine, so good, so patient with me
always, my dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I
had him, but now how I should love to see him, for everyone seems
going away from me, and I'm all alone."
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise
yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag
bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the
roof.
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it
the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently
as its inspirer? Who shall say?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking
at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending
the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie
there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming
dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed
far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow
was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years
went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to
have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for
it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal to show,
and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.
"An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster,
with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and
twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor
Johnson, I'm old and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share
it, independent, and don't need it. Well, I needn't be a sour
saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very
comfortable when they get used to it, but..." And there Jo
sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things
to five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad as it looks, and one can
get on quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall
back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old
maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be. At thirty
they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and if
sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty
more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow
old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for
often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts
that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices
of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces
beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should
be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest
part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them
with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember
that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks
don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie
brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as
sweet as love and admiration now.
Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids,
no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry
worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to
the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of
rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not
only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without
thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips
they have given you from their small store, the stitches the
patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old
feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little
attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The
bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you
all the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that
can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure
to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt
Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart
for `the best nevvy in the world'.
Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during
this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to
stand before her, a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her
with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and
didn't like to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad...
She could not think it he,
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped
and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully . ..
"Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!"
"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"
"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness.
Where's Amy?"
"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by
the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."
"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words
with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
"Oh, the dickens! Now I've done it." And he looked so
guilty that Jo was down on him like a flash.
"You've gone and got married!"
"Yes, please, but I never will again." And he went down
upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face
full of mischief, mirth, and triumph.
"Actually married?"
"Very much so, thank you."
"Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?" And
Jo fell into her seat with a gasp.
"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming
with satisfaction.
"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping
in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get
up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."
"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and
promise not to barricade."
Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day,
and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone,
"The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now. So, come
and fess, Teddy."
"How good it sounds to hear you say `Teddy'! No one ever calls
me that but you." And Laurie sat down with an air of great content.
"What does Amy call you?"
"My lord."
"That's like her. Well, you look it." And Jo's eye plainly
betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.
The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless,
a natural one, raised by time absence, and change of heart. Both
felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible
barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly
however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity...
"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"
"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and
bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever."
"Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,"
began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
"How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled,
is so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo,
smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another
laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant
old fashion.
"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for
they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wait. I wanted to
be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have `first skim'
as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream."
"Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at
the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened.
I'm pining to know."
"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle
that made Jo exclaim...
"Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell
the truth, if you can, sir."
"Now she's beginning to marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?"
said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it
quite agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one.
We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but
they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another
winter in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please
me, and I couldn't let him go along, neither could I leave Amy, and
Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense,
and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty
by saying, `Let's be married, and then we can do as we like'."
"Of course you did. You always have things to suit you."
"Not always." And something in Laurie's voice made Jo say
hastily...
"How did you ever get Aunt to agree?"
"It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we
had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write
and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by,
and it was only `taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says."
"Aren't we proud of those two word, and don't we like to say
them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching
with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes
that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
"A trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman I
can't help being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were
there to play propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we
were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would
make everything easy all round, so we did it."
"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest
and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very
quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget
dear little Beth."
Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently
smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well.
"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a
quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.
"We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming
directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as
we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at
least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked.
Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went
there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives.
My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!"
Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of
it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so
naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten.
She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought
that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast,
and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before...
"Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by
forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had
been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love
is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is.
Amy and you changed places in my heart, that's all. I think it
was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had
waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be patient, and
so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent,
and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one,
Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself.
Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I
didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you
both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland,
everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into
your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the
old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly
share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly.
Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we
first knew one another?"
"I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can
be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we
mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do,
for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you
feel this. I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I
shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire
him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't
be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister,
to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?"
He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and
laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the
grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong
friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for
she didn't the coming home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true
that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping.
Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore,
and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!"
"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't
talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a `gentleman growed'
as Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her
rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her
maternal air.
"You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much
older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has
been such a hard one that I feel forty."
"Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring.
You are older. Here's a line, and there's another. Unless you smile,
your eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now,
I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear,
and had to bear it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!"
And Laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look.
But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered,
in a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father
and Mother to help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the
thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles
here easier to bear. I am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's
good for me, and..."
"You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm
about her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't
get on without you, so you must come and teach `the children' to
keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do,
and let us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly
together."
"If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I
begin to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles
seemed to fly away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy."
And Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago,
when Beth lay ill and Laurie told her to hold on to him.
He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time,
but Jo was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had
all vanished at his coming.
"You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute,
and laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it,
Grandma?"
"I was wondering how you and Amy get on together."
"Like angels!"
"Yes, of course, but which rules?"
"I don't mind telling you that she does now, at least I let
her think so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take
turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles
one's duties."
"You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the
days of your life."
"Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall
mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In
fact, I rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly
and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was
doing you a favor all the while."
"That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and
enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands.
It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with
masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high
and mighty" air, "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the
sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and
one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel."
Jo like that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but
the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled
with her pleasure.
"I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to.
She is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed
the man best, you remember."
"She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie.
"such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal
worse than any or your scoldings, a regular rouser. I'll tell you
all about it sometime, she never will, because after telling me that
she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable
party and married the good-for-nothing."
"What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll
defend you."
"I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up
and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing
to the rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling, "Where is she?
Where's my dear old Jo?"
In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed
all over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers
were set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale
and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his
foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the
old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier
than ever. It was good to see him beam at `my children', as he
called the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him
the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart,
and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never
tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made.
The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that
her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Mofffat would be
entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that `her ladyship' was
altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she
watched the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and
Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become
his home better than clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to
him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other
with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well,
not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence,
and happiness.
For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens
a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool,
prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning.
No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness
of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace,
for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true
gentlewoman she had hoped to become.
"Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.
"She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear,"
Mr. March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray
head beside him.
Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her `pitty aunty',
but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full
of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship
before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which
took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank
movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew
where to have him.
"Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance
you hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman,"
and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew
in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted
his boyish soul.
"Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot? Ain't it a relishin'
sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, anch a happy
procession as filed away into the little dining room! Mr. March
proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as proudly leaned on
the arm of `my son'. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered,
"You must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner by the
fire, that made Jo whisper back, "I'll try to fill her place, sir.
The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at
hand, for everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were
left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they
made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea,
stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a
crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart
into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously,
teaching them that both human nature and a pastry are frail?
Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts,
and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of
cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners
attached themselves to `Dranpa', who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy,
who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on
Father Laurence's arm. The others paired off as before, and this
arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the
minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry.
"Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them
lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"
"Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold
plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks
nothing too good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction.
"No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?"
asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.
"I don't care." And Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an
uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the
party vanishing above, and as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the
last stair, a sudden sense of lonliness came over her so strongly
that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to
lean upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what
birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would
not have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed.
It won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes,
for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her
handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when
there came a knock at the porch door.
She opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another
ghost had come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded
gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.
"Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a
clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before
she could get him in.
"And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the
Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing
feet came down to them.
"No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends
have just come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and
make one of us."
Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone
decorously away, and come again another day, but how could he,
when Jo shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat?
Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot
to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness
that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far
exceeded his boldest hopes.
"If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see
them all. You haf been ill, my friend?"
He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat,
the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.
"Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble
since I saw you last."
"Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard
that," And he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face
that Jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the kind
eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand.
"Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she
said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and
pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet and opened
the door with a flourish.
If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they
were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received.
Everyone greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very
soon they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for
he carried the talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple
people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly
because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who live above
it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr.
Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who
knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at
home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and
establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him
by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his
watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their
approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got
a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's
benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but
said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to
sleep.
If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior
would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but
something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof
at first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection.
But it did not last long. He got interested in spite of himself,
and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer
talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice.
He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a
shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost
youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eyes
would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered
the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to
take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she
prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a
model maiden aunt.
A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of
fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed
her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the
absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in
the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought,
forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange
men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired,
though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation
had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic.
Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in
an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's
absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor
to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed
in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman
than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but
didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled
it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly
erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine
forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that
plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting
nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually
had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands.
"Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with
more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and
then a sudden thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully
that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.
The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however,
for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral
pyre, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking,
and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they
bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came
up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats,
wishing they had not left them.
Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully
abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy
poppies, and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat
round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse
of time, till Meg, whose maternal was impressed with a firm conviction
that Daisy had tumbled out of be, and Demi set his nightgown
afire studying the structure of matches, made a move to go.
"We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all
together again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout
would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of
her soul.
They were not all there. But no one found the words thougtless
or untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence,
invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break
the household league that love made disoluble. The little
chair stood in its old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of
work she left unfinished when the needle grew `so heavy', was
still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom
touched now had not been moved, and above it Beth's face, serene
and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming
to say, "Be happy. I am here."
"Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved,"
said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.
But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded
stool, "Not tonight, dear. I can't show off tonight."
But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill,
for she sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which
the best master could not have taught, and touched the listener's
hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have
given her. The room was very still, when the clear voice failed
suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard
to say...
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;
and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling
that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss.
"Now, we must finish with Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings
that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer
cleared his throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the
corner where Jo stood, saying...
"You will sing with me? We go excellently well together."
A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of
music than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had
proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless
of time and tune. It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhaer
sang like a true German, heartily and well, and Jo soon subsided
into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that
seemed to sing for her alone.
Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,
used to be the Professor's favorite line, for `das land' meant
Germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth
and melody, upon the words...
There, oh there, might I with thee,
O, my beloved, go
and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she
longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart
thither whenever he liked
The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired
covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his
manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she
had been introduced simply as `my sister', and on one had called
her by her new name since her came. He forgot himself still further
when Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting...
"My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember
that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."
Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so
suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him
the most delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.
"I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will
gif me leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will
keep me here some days."
He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother's
voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes, for
Mrs. March was not so blind to her children's interest as Mrs.
Moffat supposed.
"I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with
placid satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had
gone.
"I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided
approval, as she wound up the clock.
"I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped
away to her bed.
She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to
the city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some
great honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the
fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he
looked at the picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a
good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity,
it might have thrown some light upon the subject, especially when
he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in the dark.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half
an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of
Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," said
Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting
in her mother's lap, as if being made `the baby' again.
"Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but
this." And Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding
ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
"I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but
I can't get on without my little woman any more than a..."
"Weathercock can without the wind," suggested Jo, as he
paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self
again since Teddy came home.
"Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the
time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and
I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married. Don't know
anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy,
hey, my lady?"
"Lovely weather so far. I don't know how long it will last,
but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my
ship. Come home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose
that's what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so
helpless, Mother," said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted
her husband.
"What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?"
asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
"We have our plans. We don't mean to say much about them
yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to
be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight
Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need
something of the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling,
and mean to work like a man."
"And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well
pleased at Laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke.
"After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet,
we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion,
the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial
influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about
it, isn't it, Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizzical
look at Amy.
"Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock
my family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy,
resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it
before she set up a salon as a queen of society.
"How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March,
finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after
the young couple had gone.
"Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the
restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into
port.
"I know it will. Happy Amy!" And Jo sighed, then smiled
brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient
push.
Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest
about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs.
Laurence."
"My Lord!"
"That man intends to marry our Jo!"
"I hope so, don't you, dear?"
"Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense
of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger
and a good deal richer."
"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded.
If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old
they are nor how poor. Women never should marry for money..."
Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked
at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity...
"Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that
they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you
once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That accounts,
perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me."
"Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you
were rich when I said `Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't
a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show
how much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public
and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of
her words.
"You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as
I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you
didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you,
even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake."2
"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when
you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half
I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day,
poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation,
but you had better lessons, and though I trembled for you at
one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to
the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she
looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a
million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my
moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence." And Laurie paused, for Amy's
eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face.
"Yes, I am, and admiring the mple in your chin at the
same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess
that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money.
Don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me." And Amy
softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction.
Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never
one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did
laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May
I ask you a question, dear?"
"Of course, you may."
"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"
"Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought there was something
in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the
manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance
at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt
it, my darling?"
Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous
fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of
love and confidence.
"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor.
Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out
there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie,
when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in
arm, as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud
of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty
was a beautiful thing."
"Bless her dear heart! She won't think so when she has a
literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins
to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and
do them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part
of my education, and she believes in people's paying their honest
debts, so I'll get round her in that way."
"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it?
That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving
freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true."
"Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one
sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out
beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly,
because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity.
Yet there are a thousand ways of helping them, if one only
knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend. I
must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a
blarnerying beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it
is harder."
"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other
member of the domestic admiration society.
"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment.
But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I
saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices,
and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams.
Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor
and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition
that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right
good lift. Those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help,
for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to
serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel
to keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to
comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find
it out."
"Yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and
who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to
it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid
in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie,
and often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities
go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute. People
have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls struggling
along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them,
as I was helped."
"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie,
resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow
an institution for the express benefit of young women with
artistic tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down
and enjoy themselves, or let their money accumulate for others
to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one
dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy
making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good
time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by
giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little
Dorcal, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and
filling it up with good deeds?"
"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin,
stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share your
cloak with the beggar."
"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"
So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced
happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more
homelike because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing
that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery
path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for other feet,
and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together
by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian
of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to
the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and
Demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast
age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them,
too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there
ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled
by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they
were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown
when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently
at twelve months, and at two years they took their places
at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders.
At three, Daisy demanded a `needler', and actually made
a bag with four stitches in it. She likewise set up
housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking
stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's
eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who
invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters
with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and
heels. The boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted
his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to
imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic
condition, with his `sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of
string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go
`wound and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a chair,
in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who,
with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till
rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why,
Marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."
Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably
well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice
a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly
defended her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made a
galley slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect
being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul
was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled
there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be
kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses,
and produced for general approval on all festive occasions.
Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite
angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully
human. It was all fair weather in her world, and every
morning she scrambled up to the window in her little nightgown
to look our, and say, no matter whether it rained or shone,
"Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a friend, and she
offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate
bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful
worshipers.
"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with
her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to
embrace and nourish the whole world.
As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote
would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving
as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to
pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately
taught them how long they had entertained an angel unawares. Her
grandfather often called her `Beth', and her grandmother watched
over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some
past mistake, which no eye but her own could see.
Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting
to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he
could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"
He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of
his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him,
in which the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to
the undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk.
"What makes my legs go, Dranpa?" asked the young philosopher,
surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air,
while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the
yellow head respectfully.
"What is a little mine?"
"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring
made the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."
"Open me. I want to see it go wound."
"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God
winds you up, and you go till He stops you."
"Does I?" And Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he
took in the new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"
"Yes, but I can't show you how, for it is done when we don't see."
Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of
the watch, and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it when
I's asleep."
A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively
that his anxious grandmother said, "My dear, do you think it wise
to talk about such things to that baby? He's getting great bumps
over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions."
"If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to
receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his
head, but helping him unfold those already there. These children
are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands
every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep
your mind."
If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates,
I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, but
when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young
stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little
belly," the old gentleman could only join in Grandma's laugh, and
dismiss the class in metaphysics.
There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had
not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a
budding philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused
Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for
this world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by
some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals
distract and delight their parent's souls.
Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what
mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious
evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women
who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
"No more raisins, Demi. They'll make you sick," says Mamma
to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with
unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.
"Me likes to be sick."
"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty cakes."
He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit,
and by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits
Mamma by a shrewd bargain.
"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you
like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when
the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
"Truly, Marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.
"Yes, truly. Anything you say," replies the shortsighted parent,
preparing herself to sing, "The Three Little Kittens" half a
dozen times over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless
of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply...
"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."
Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children,
and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as
yet only a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly
vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the
most of her, for which compliment she was deeply grateful. But
when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and
desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of
going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became
bankrupt. Demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that
Dodo like to play with `the bear-man' better than she did him,
but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the
heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate drops in
his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its
case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties
as bribes, but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to
patronize the `the bear-man' with pensive affability, while Daisy
bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and
considered his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts
treasures surpassing worth.
Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration
for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard,
but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them,
and does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was
sincere, however likewise effective--for honesty is the best policy
in love as in law. He was one of the men who are at home with children,
and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant
contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained
him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to
see--well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the
attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he
was, and reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till
a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the
study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon
the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and
beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude
with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers
so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators,
till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with
a scandalized face...
"Father, Father, here's the Professor!"
Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the
preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer.
Excuse me for a moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi,
make the letter and tell its name."
"I knows him!" And, after a few convulsive efforts, the red
legs tok the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent
pupil triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, Dranpa, it's a We!"
"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself
up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only
mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
"What have you been at today, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer,
picking up the gymnast.
"Me went to see little Mary."
"And what did you there?"
"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.
"Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say
to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner,
who stood upon the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.
"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't
little boys like little girls?" asked Demi, with his mouth full,
and an air of bland satisfaction.
"You precious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo,
enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.
"`Tisn't in mine head, it's in mine mouf," answered literal
Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking
she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to
the sweet, mannling." And Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look
that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the
gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy
inquired. ..
"Do great boys like great girls, to, 'Fessor?"
Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer `couldn't tell a lie', so
he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes,
in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush,
glance at Jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking
as if the `precocious chick' had put an idea into his head
that was both sweet and sour.
Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an
hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body
with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there,
and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected
gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems
over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to
leave unsolved forever.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet
carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful
future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different
sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.
"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know
why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor
on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or three
encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever
one she took she was sure to meet him., either going or returning.
He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her
until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted
eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that
moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something
for the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely
strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless
they were tired of his frequent calls.
Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him
civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she
concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that
there should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr.
Bhaer--doesn't like tea."
By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was
going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind
to the changes in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about
her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming
with her evening exercise. And no one seemed to have the slightest
suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with
the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.
Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but
sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led
a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed
at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of
independence. Laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the
new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called
Mr. Bhaer `a capital old fellow' in public, never alluded, in the
remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the
least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches' table
nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for
the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a
bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms.
For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like
regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made
no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and
Jo to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very
cross.
"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came.
It's nothing tome, of course, but I should think he would have
come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself,
with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for
the customary walk one dull afternoon.
"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like
rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet,
but not alluding to the fact.
"Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I've got to
run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow
under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at
her mother.
"Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine
needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got
your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?"
"I believe so," answered Jo absently.
"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea.
I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.
Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother,
and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite
of her heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who
haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?"
The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses,
banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate,
but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a
single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining
engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in
another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels,
being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously
by busy men who looked as if they wondered `how the deuce
she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts
from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to
fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though
it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she
remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take
in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing
could be done but borrow one or submit to to a drenching. She
looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already
flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one
long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with
`Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' over the door, and said to herself,
with a sternly reproachful air...
"It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my
best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the
Professor? Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there
to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends.
You shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain, and if
you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than
you deserve. Now then!"
With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she
narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated
herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said,
"I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat
daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over
the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on,
with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of
umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue
one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted
her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.
"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely
under many horse noses, and so fast through much mus. What do
you down here, my friend?"
"I'm shopping."
Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on
one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other,
but her only said politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also,
and take for you the bundles?"
"Yes, thank you."
Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what
he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found
herself walking away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if
the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that
the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman
was paddling through the wet that day.
"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he
was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face,
and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those
who haf been so heavenly kind tome?" he asked so reproachfully
that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and
answered heartily...
"No, I didn't. I knew you were busy about your own affairs,
but we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially."
"And you?"
"I'm always glad to see you, sir."
In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather
cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill
the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...
"I thank you, and come one more time before I go."
"You are going, then?"
"I haf no longer any business here, it is done."
"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
was in that short reply of his.
"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which
I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help."
"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys,"
said Jo eagerly.
"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me
a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough
to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be
grateful, should I not?"
"Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you
doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!"
cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction
she could not help betraying.
"Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at
the West."
"So far away!" And Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if
it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not
learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew
Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions
of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid
succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different
moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked
surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she
had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm,
she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but when
he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply
that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she
almost clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then
on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone
of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the
next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one
entirely absorbed in the matter...
"Here's the place for my errands. Will you come in? It
won't take long."
Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities,
and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness
and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business.
But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss.
She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be
`twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and
covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon
at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush
and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to
subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions,
women, like dreams, go by contraries.
When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with
a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if
he rather enjoyed it on the whole.
"Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the
babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last
call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a
window full of fruit and flowers.
"What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of
his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation
of delight as they went in.
"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a
paternal air.
"They eat them when they can get them."
"Do you care for nuts?"
"Like a squirrel."
"Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in
those?"
Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why
he didn't buy a frail of dated, a cask of raisins, and a bag of
almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her
purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying
several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty
jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then
distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the
flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled
on again.
"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the
Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.
"Yes, sir." And Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was
afraid he would hear it.
"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short
a time remains to me."
"Yes, sir." And Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with
the sudden squeeze she gave it.
"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid
to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"
"Yes, sir." And JO felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if
she had stepped into a refrigerator.
"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick,
and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl
would be a friendly thing to take the little mother."
"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast,
and he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then
with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy
that was pleasant to behold.
Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for
Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married
man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared
to be shopping for their family.
"Your lady may prefer this. It's a superior article, a most
desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out
a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.
"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her
back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding
her face.
"Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor,
smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to
rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were
very pleasant to him.
"Yes, it's late, and I'm so tired." Jo's voice was more
pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone
in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and
miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her
feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder
than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer
was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all
a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this
idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such
a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were
badly damaged.
"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the
loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little
flowers.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't see the name distinctly. Never
mind, I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo,
winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly
wipe her eyes.
Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her
head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly
stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's
dearest, why do you cry?"
Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would
have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told
any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which,
that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob,
"Because you are going away."
"Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing
to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles,
"Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if
you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something
more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your
heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath.
"Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she
folded both hands over his are, and looked up at him with an
expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk
through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter
than the old umbrella, if he carried it.
It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if
he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his
knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his
hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could
he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though
he was near it. So the only way in which he could express his
rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified
his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be
little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If
he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done
it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a
deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and
her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the
most beautiful woman living, and she found him more `Jove-like"
than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little
rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the
umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed
mending.
Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics,
for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled
leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little
they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the
happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical
moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain,
wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.
The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the
world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While
Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been
there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other
lot. Of course, she was the first to speak--intelligibly, I
mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous
"Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character.
"Friedrich, why didn't you..."
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since
Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard
her with grateful delight.
"I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless
you like it."
"Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say `thou',
also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
"Isn't `thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking
it a lovely monosyllable.
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment,
and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English `you' is so cold, say
`thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer,
more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked
Jo bashfully.
"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly
will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my
Jo--ah, the dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something
the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome
friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou
have said `Yes', then, if I had spoken?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."
"Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince
came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, `Die erste Liebe
ist die beste', but that I should not expect."
"Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I
never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his
little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
"Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest
me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt
find , Professorin."
"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now
tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?"
"This." And Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his
waistcoat pocket.
Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of
her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which
accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.
"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he
meant.
"I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the
initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to
call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in
the wet."
IN THE GARRET
Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
All fashioned and filled, long ago,
By children now in their prime.
Four little keys hung side by side,
With faded ribbons, brave and gay
When fastened there, with childish pride,
Long ago, on a rainy day.
Four little names, one on each lid,
Carved out by a boyish hand,
And underneath there lieth hid
Histories of the happpy band
Once playing here, and pausing oft
To hear the sweet refrain,
That came and went on the roof aloft,
In the falling summer rain.
"Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
I look in with loving eyes,
For folded here, with well-known care,
A goodly gathering lies,
The record of a peaceful life--
Gifts to gentle child and girl,
A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
No toys in this first chest remain,
For all are carried away,
In their old age, to join again
In another small Meg's play.
Ah, happy mother! Well I know
You hear, like a sweet refrain,
Lullabies ever soft and low
In the falling summer rain.
"Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,
And within a motley store
Of headless, dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
Birds and beasts that speak no more,
Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
Only trod by youthful feet,
Dreams of a future never found,
Memories of a past still sweet,
Half-writ poems, stories wild,
April letters, warm and cold,
Diaries of a wilful child,
Hints of a woman early old,
A woman in a lonely home,
Hearing, like a sad refrain--
"Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
In the falling summer rain.
My Beth! the dust is always swept
From the lid that bears your name,
As if by loving eyes that wept,
By careful hands that often came.
Death cannonized for us one saint,
Ever less human than divine,
And still we lay, with tender plaint,
Relics in this household shrine--
The silver bell, so seldom rung,
The little cap which last she wore,
The fair, dead Catherine that hung
By angels borne above her door.
The songs she sang, without lament,
In her prison-house of pain,
Forever are they sweetly blent
With the falling summer rain.
Upon the last lid's polished field--
Legend now both fair and true
A gallant knight bears on his shield,
"Amy" in letters gold and blue.
Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
Slippers that have danced their last,
Faded flowers laid by with care,
Fans whose airy toils are past,
Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
Trifles that have borne their part
In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
The record of a maiden heart
Now learning fairer, truer spells,
Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
The silver sound of bridal bells
In the falling summer rain.
Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
Four women, taught by weal and woe
To love and labor in their prime.
Four sisters, parted for an hour,
None lost, one only gone before,
Made by love's immortal power,
Nearest and dearest evermore.
Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
Lie open to the Father's sight,
May they be rich in golden hours,
Deeds that show fairer for the light,
Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
Like a spirit-stirring strain,
Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
In the long sunshine after rain.
"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day
when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never
thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing
up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.
"Let it go, it has done it's duty, and I will haf a fresh one
when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little
secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments
fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that,
and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would
find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall
I not go and say, "If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what
I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?"
"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one
precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.
"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was
your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said,
`I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer,
with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were
barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.
"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding
it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful
answers that she could not keep silent.
"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you
from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to
gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask
you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune
but a little learning?"
"I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear a rich husband,"
said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty.
I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working
for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the prime
of life. I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"
The Professor found that so touching that he would have been
glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As her
couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she
took away a bundle or two...
"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my
sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying
tears and bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich,
and help to earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll
never go," she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.
"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo?
I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first,
because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can
you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"
"Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes
all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work.
I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so
there's no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part
out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the
best, and leaving the future to be as God wills."
"Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing
to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the
Professor, quite overcome.
Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said
that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into
his, whispering tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down,
kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but
she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows
on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone
indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness.
Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning
moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and
storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace
waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her
lover in, and shut the door.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped
and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters
that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie
said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects
did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their
first sorrow was over--for they loved the old lady in spite
of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause for rejoicing,
for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful
things possible.
"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for
of course you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all
talking the matter over some weeks later.
"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the
fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former
mistress.
"You don't mean to live there?"
"Yes, I do."
"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a
power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone
need two or three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take
it."
"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."
"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well,
that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," And
Jo laughed.
"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads--a good,
happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz
to teach them."
"That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like
her?" cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much
surprised as he.
"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.
"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of
a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern
youth.
"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking
the head or her one all-absorbing son.
"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea.
Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing
to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his
help.
"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in
her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind
before she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly,
"just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long
cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when
I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a
big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who hadn't
any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them
before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of
help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I
seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and
oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!"
Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling,
with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way,
which they had not seen for a long while.
"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what
he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his
dear heart, he's been doing it all his life--helping poor boys, I
mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay
in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my
good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich,
at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well,
if we have a flourishing school. It's just the place for boys,
the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There's
plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside.
They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is healthy,
isn't it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach in his own way,
and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold
them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots
of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and
revel in the little dears to my heart's content. Think what luxury--
Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me."
As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family
went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till
they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit.
"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she
could be heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than
for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside
in my own estate."
"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded
the idea in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how
you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are
little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in
a worldly sense, Mr. Bhaer."
"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have
rich pupils, also--perhaps begin with such altogether. Then,
when I've got a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just
for a relish. Rich people's children often need care and comfort,
as well as poor. I've seen unfortunate little creatures left to
servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty.
Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lose
their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy
age, and that's the very time they need most patience and kindness.
People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them
out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty
children into fine young men. They don't complain much--
plucky little souls--but they feel it. I've been through something
of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest
in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm,
honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms
and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too,
for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"
"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful look.
"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a
steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your
money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars.
But you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful
things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you
always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you
get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won't
let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just point
to you, and say `There's your model, my lads'."
Poor Laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he
was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst
of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his
old boyish way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever
thank you for, except by doing my best not to disapoint you. You
have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help,
nevertheless. So, if I've got on at all, you may thank these two
for it." And he laid one hand gently on his grandfather's head,
and the other on Amy's golden one, for the three were never far
apart.
"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in
all the world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted
frame of mind just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it
will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John
and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven
on earth," she added more quietly. And that night when she went
to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes,
and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only
calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and
thinking tender thoughts of Beth.
It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed
to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost
before she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled
at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up
like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as
rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case
of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child,
and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way,
the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with
the style of boy in which she most delighted.
Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer
mistakes, but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer
waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end.
How Jo did enjoy her `wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear
Aunt March would have lamented had she been there to see the
sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with
Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice
about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys
for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden
plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved,
and played cricket in the big field where the irritable
`cow with a crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to come and
be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested
that it should be called the `Bhaer-garten', as a compliment
to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.
It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not
lay up a fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be--
`a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and
kindness'. Every room in the big house was soon full. Every
little plot in the garden soon had its owner. A regular menagerie
appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed.
And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of
a long table lined on either side with rows of happy young faces,
which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words,
and grateful hearts, full of love for `Mother Bhaer'. She had
boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not
angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and
Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good
spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most
tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in
time success, for no mortal boy could hold out long with Father
Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer
forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the
friendship of the lads, their penitent sniffs and whispers after
wrongdoing, their droll or touching little confidences, their
pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their misfortunes,
for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow
boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys, boys that
lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a
merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but
who was welcome to the `Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted
that his admission would ruin the school.
Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work,
much anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and
found the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of
the world, for now she told no stories except to her flock of
enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the years went on, two
little lads of her own came to increase her happiness--Rob,
named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed
to have inherited his papa's sunshiny temper as well as his
mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that
whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but
they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough
nurses loved and served them well.
There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of
the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the
Marches, Laurences, Brookes. And Bhaers turned out in full force
and made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these
fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air
was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise
and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore
its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls.
Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped
like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their
small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders
in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower
of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there.
Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down. Everybody
declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such
a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to
the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no
such things as care or sorrow in the world.
Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley,
and Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying...
The gentle apple's winey juice.
The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout
Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys,
who made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed
wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted
himself to the little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket,
took Daisy up among the bird's nests, and kept adventurous
Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among
the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions
that kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression
in her face sketched the various groups, and watched over one
pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him.
Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her
gown pinned up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her
baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure which
might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing
ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was
whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of
another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa,
who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest
anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own
small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in
time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received
him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.
At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained
empty, while the apple pickers rested and compared rents and
bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys,
set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was
always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally flowed
with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not
required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment
as they liked--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish
soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the
fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking
mild while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to
leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were
sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in
the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a
private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own
sweet will.
When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the
first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times--"Aunt
March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man,
who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the
boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green.
"Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with
three times three!"
That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and
the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's
health was proposed, form Mr. Laurence, who was considered their
special patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed
from its proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as
the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with
various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the
festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them,
but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments
to Grandma's--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every
stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs
she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi's
miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, Rob's
footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was
soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was
so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words--
"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth."
During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared,
and when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken
down, while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor
suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice
took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the
unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the little
song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor
trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was something
altogether new, and it proved a grand success, for Mrs. March
couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands
with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and
Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.
After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs.
March and her daughters under the festival tree.
"I don't think I ever ought to call myself `unlucky Jo' again,
when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs.
Bhaer, taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which
he was rapturously churning.
"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured
so long ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy,
smiling as she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business
and frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal
way of all mankind. "Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then
seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the
hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm
sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations
as these." And Jo pointed from the lively lads in the
distance to her father, leaning on the Professor's arm, as they
walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations
which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned
among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at
her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which
never could grow old to them.
"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for
splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be
satisfied, if I had a little home, and John, and some dear children
like these. I've got them all, thank God, and am the
happiest woman in the world." And Meg laid her hand on her tall
boy's head, with a face full of tender and devout content.
"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would
not alter it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic
hopes, or confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of
beauty. I've begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it
is the best thing I've ever done. I think so, myself, and mean
to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep
the image of my little angel."
As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the
sleeping child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was
a frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow
over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father
and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together.
Amy's nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie
was growing more serious, strong, and firm, and both were learning
that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep
care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for ...
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and sad and dreary.
"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't
despond, but hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted
Daisy stooped from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against
her little cousin's pale one.
"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee,
and Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy
warmly. "He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and
patient with me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort
to me always that I can't love him enough. So, in spite of my
one cross, I can say with Meg, `Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'"
"There's no need for me to say it, for everyone can see
that I'm far happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from
her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass
beside her. "Fritz is getting gray and stout. I'm growing as
thin as a shadow, and am thirty. We never shall be rich, and
Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy
Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes,
though he's set himself afire three times already. But in
spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain
of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but
living among boys, I can't help using their expressions now
and then."
"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began
Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was
staring Teddy out of countenance.
"Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we
never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping
you have done," cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which
she never would outgrow.
"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every
year," said Amy softly.
"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for
it, Marmee dear," added Meg's tender voice.
Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out
her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself,
and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude,
and humility...
"Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can
wish you a greater happiness than this!"