LITTLE WOMEN(1869) by Louisa May Alcott PART TWO

First Part
Part Second
Chapter 24 - Gossip


In order that we may start afresh, and go to Meg's wedding with free
minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the
Marches. And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think
there is too much "lovering" in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not
afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say
with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have four gay girls in
the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?"
The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the
quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with
his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature
as by grace- a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is
better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind "brother,"
the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.
These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which
shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many
admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as
naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard
experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the
gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or
troubled women instinctively brought their doubts and sorrows to
him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel;
sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both
rebuked and saved; gifted men found a companion in him; ambitious
men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own; and even
worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true,
although "they wouldn't pay."
To outsiders, the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and
so they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his
books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience,
anchor, and comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always
turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those
sacred words husband and father.
The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls
into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so
faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and
bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life
and outlives death.
Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when
we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the
hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers'
widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.
John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was
sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars,
but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life
and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly
resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well,
preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good
sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr.
Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of
book-keeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned
salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.
Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing
womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than
ever; for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions
and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the
new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner,
and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage,
many gifts, and splendid outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing
she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished
when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into
the little home awaiting her; and when they sat together in the
twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so
beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor, and felt
herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom.
Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy
to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from
one of the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage,
Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her
mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
Jo, meantime, devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained
delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an
invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had
been; yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, busy with the quiet
duties she loved, every one's friend, and an angel in the house,
long before those who loved her most had learned to know it.
As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her
"rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and
spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in
her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the
garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which
was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame.
Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his
grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner
to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners,
much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into
scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great
danger of being spoilt, and probably would have been, like many
another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against evil
in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the
motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and
last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent
girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts.
Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and
flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as
college fashions ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more
than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high
spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always
managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or
the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection.
In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked
to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over
wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The
"men of my class" were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never
wearied of the exploits of "our fellows," and were frequently
allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie
brought them home with him.
Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle
among them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of
fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in
her private and particular John to care for any other lords of
creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder
how Amy dared to order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her
element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the
gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural
to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked
Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped
without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's
shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the
"Dove-cote."
That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had
prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was
highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like
a pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a
tiny house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as
a pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain,
shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at
present, the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very
like a dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young
larches, undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of
flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where
seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the
happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall
was so narrow, it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one
never could have been got in whole; the dining-room was so small
that six people were a tight fit; and the kitchen stairs seemed
built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china
pell-mell into the coal-bin. But once get used to these slight
blemishes, and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good
taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly
satisfactory. There were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or
lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of
books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay-window,
and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly
hands, and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought.
I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty
because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer
could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's
artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with
good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and
her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am
morally certain that the spandy-new kitchen never could have looked so
cosey and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen
times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis.
Brooke came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life
with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth
made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented
three different kinds of dishclothes for the express service of the
bridal china.
People who hire all these things done for them never know what
they lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do
them, and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her
small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor
table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought.
What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping
excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter
arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this
young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy
as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly
visits, some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young
housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful
nutmeg-grater, which fell to pieces at the first trial; a
knife-cleaner that spoilt all the knives; or a sweeper that picked the
nap neatly off the carpet, and left the dirt; labor-saving soap that
took the skin off one's hands; infallible cements which stuck firmly
to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer; and every kind of
tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful
boiler which would wash articles in its own steam, with every prospect
of exploding in the process.
In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called
him "Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing
Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So
each week beheld some fresh absurdity.
Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different
colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting
the table for the first meal.
"Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if
you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter
went through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to
cling together more tenderly than ever.
"Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy
that I can't talk about it," answered Meg with a look that was
better than words.
"If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said
Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide
whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the
mantle-piece.
"Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to
try her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty
to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough
work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg
tranquilly.
"Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy.
"If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis
would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a
big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles.
"Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping
with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a
feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house
as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to
leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip.
When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear
out or get torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them;
for I got heartily sick of doing fancy work and tending my
pocket-handkerchief."
"Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie
says she does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well,
and the servants laugh at her," said Meg.
"I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how
things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was
play then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I
not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for
my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire
help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn
now will be of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for
the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work
ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served."
"Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to
the little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the
all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room
most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went
upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet.
Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves,
and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke;
for that linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg
married "that Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt
March was rather in a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and
made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much
exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a
plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma,
was ordered to buy, have made, and marked, a generous supply of
house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was
faithfully done; but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by
the family; for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and
insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls,
long promised to the first bride.
"That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young
friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had
finger-bowls for company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March,
patting the damask tableclothes, with a truly feminine appreciation of
their fineness.
"I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will
last me all my days, Hannah says"; and Meg looked quite contented,
as well she might.
"Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down
to meet Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their
quiet lives.
A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a
felt-basin of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the
road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to
open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a
hearty-
"Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right."
The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a
kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that
the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.
"For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and
compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo.
Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."
As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled
Beth's hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an
attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and
every one began to talk.
"Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously.
"Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am."
"Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted
in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
"Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see."
"How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant
smile.
"More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and
Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a
melodramatic sigh.
"What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth,
eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.
"It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or
thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the
laughter of the girls.
"Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg,
just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the
neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a
sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.
"There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me
to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from
destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she
hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked
like a remarkably plummy one."
"I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly
tone.
"I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as
six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days,"
responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the
little chandelier.
"I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and
span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an
adjournment," he added presently.
"Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things
to settle," said Meg, bustling away.
"Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for
to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque
curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
"Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of
exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron,
whatever you do; it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo
bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered
him her arm to support his feeble steps.
"Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began
Jo, as they strolled away together. "You must promise to behave
well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
"Not a prank."
"And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
"I never do; you are the one for that."
"And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall
certainly laugh if you do."
"You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round
you will obscure the prospect."
"I never cry unless for some great affliction."
"Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a
suggestive laugh.
"Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls
company."
"Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?"
"Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll
take it?" asked Jo rather sharply.
"Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say
'All right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an
injured air.
"No, I don't."
"Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said
Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
"You spend a great deal, Teddy."
"Bless you, I don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone
before I know it."
"You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow,
and can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did
for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame
you," said Jo warmly.
"Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let
that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a
little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"
"Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen
waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come
home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and
then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be
hideous-to make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a
strait-jacket, orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it
was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the
other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it."
Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this
attack, that the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which
insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the
advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the
maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all
through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll
get myself up regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a
satisfaction to my friends."
"I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm
not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who
looks like a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely.
"This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it,"
returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity,
having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand
for quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble.
"By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting
desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and
moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little
passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential,
elder-brotherly tone, after a minute's silence.
"Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family
for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?"
and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not
yet in their teens.
"It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You
are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left
lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the
times.
"Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will
want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid
in a family."
"You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong
glance, and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You
won't show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a
peep at it by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you
treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart- throw cold water over
him- and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."
"I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with
nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't
say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and
we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to
get cross, so let's change the subject"; and Jo looked quite ready
to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.
Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for
them in a long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted
at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."






Chapter 25 - The First Wedding

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that
morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine,
like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with
excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind,
whispering to one another what they had seen; for some peeped in at
the dining-room windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up
to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others
waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in
garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower
to the palest baby-bud, offered their tribute of beauty and
fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so
long.
Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and
sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day,
making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty.
Neither silk, lace, nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want
to look strange or fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a
fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love,, and to them
I wish to look and be my familiar self."
So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender
hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up
her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of
the valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew.
"You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and
lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried
Amy, surveying her with delight, when all was done.
"Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and
don't mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put
into it to-day"; and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung
about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had
not changed the old.
"Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a
few minutes with father quietly in the study"; and Meg ran down to
perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother
wherever she went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the
motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart
at the flight of the first bird from the nest.
As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to
their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes
which three years have brought in their appearance; for all are
looking their best just now.
Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with
ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil,
more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a
fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only
gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day.
Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the
beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that
saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain
which touches the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth
seldom complains, and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon."
Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family"; for at
sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman- not
beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One
saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands,
the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair- unconscious, yet
harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose
still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian; so did her
mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending
features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it,
and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue
eyes, and curls, more golden and abundant than ever.
All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the
summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just
what they were- fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment
in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter
in the romance of womanhood.
There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be
as natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she
was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead
her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had
fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister
marching upstairs with a grave countenance, and a wine-bottle under
each arm.
"Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking
the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her
lavender moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till
the last minute, child."
"I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to
criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to
care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little
wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer"; and away
went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment.
Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the
unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door,
with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief,
with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the
indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!"
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of
cousins arrived, and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a
child.
"Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than
mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and
Laurie's black head towered above the rest.
"He has promised to be very good to-day, and he can be perfectly
elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to
beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady
with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the
room as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green
arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up;
the fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the
service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled
visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in
her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in
her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt
March sniffed audibly.
Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved
from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring
fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his
wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder,
but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of
sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was
fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and,
turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen
minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for every one availed
themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr.
Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a head-dress fearfully and
wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying, with a sob and
a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a
mite, and everything looks lovely."
Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or
tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts
are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the
little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful
lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt
March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and
coffee were found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes
carried round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who
insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded
salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.
"Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I
merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose
this morning?"
"No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March
actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and
despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that
wine should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither
she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her
roof."
Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh;
but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his
impetuous way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish
other women would think as you do."
"You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an
anxious accent in Meg's voice.
"No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me,
either; this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine
is as common as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it;
but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you
see."
"But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come,
Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest
day of my life."
A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a
moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg
knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and,
feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She
did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent
by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything
to-day." Laurie certainly could not; and, with an answering smile,
he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!"
"I thank you, very, very much."
"And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo,
baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and
beamed approvingly upon him.
So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in
spite of many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had
seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he
thanked them all his life.
After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through
house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and
John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot,
when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing
touch to this unfashionable wedding.
"All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made
husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and
spinsters prance in couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down
the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that every
one else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs.
March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol, began it; others rapidly joined in; even
Sallie Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her
arm, and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr.
Laurence and Aunt March; for when the stately old gentleman chasseed
solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm,
and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest, and dance about
the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden, like
butterflies on a midsummer day.
Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then
people began to go.
"I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think
you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the
bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure,
young man, see that you deserve it."
"That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I
don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed
Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away.
"Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of
thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be
perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his
easy-chair to rest, after the excitement of the morning.
"I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually
dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his
button-hole.
The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg
had was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When
she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored
suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her
to say "good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the
grand tour.
"Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I
love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging
to her mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every
day, father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts,
though I am married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the
other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping
struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!"
They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender
pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her
hands full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy
face- and so Meg's married life began.






Chapter 26 - Artistic Attempts


It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent
and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning
this distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm
for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful
audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie"
business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing,
in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork
proved both pleasant and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused
pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching.
While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a
conflagration; for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at
all hours; smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency,
red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed
without a pail of water and the dinner-bell at her door, in case of
fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the under side of
the moulding-board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer-barrel; a
chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar-bucket, and attempts to
portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindlings for some time.
From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted
her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she
daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never
seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have
taken prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her
vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer,
if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and
rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance.
Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of
the studio, suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a
lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and
dropsical infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue
thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a
tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy,
a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened
into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good,
and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were
pronounced "wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster
followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of
the house, or tumbled off closet-shelves onto people's heads. Children
were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her
mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a
young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an
abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor.
Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own
pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly
bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the young
enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast in a
pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With
much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so
overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too
far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic
attempt, at least.
After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature
set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies,
and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on
damp grass to book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump,
one mushroom, and a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of
clouds," that looked like a choice display of feather-beds when
done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the
midsummer sun, to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her
nose, trying after "points of sight," or whatever the
squint-and-string performance is called.
If "genius is eternal patience," as Michelangelo affirms, Amy
certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered
in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly
believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called
"high art."
She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for
she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if
she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she
was one of those happily created beings who please without effort,
make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that
less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a
lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact.
She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always
said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the
time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to
say, "If Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd
know exactly what to do."
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who
possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring
what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a
gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so
that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place
from which poverty now excluded her.
"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a
genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money
cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer
nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of
external drawbacks.
"I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with
an important air, one day.
"Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes
the stately young lady still remained "the baby."
"Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls
separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They
are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some
of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me
in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I
am poor, yet they never made any difference."
"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the
girls called her "Maria Theresa air."
"You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly
every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know"; and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she
possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she
asked-
"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"
"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them
a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps,
and make a little artistic fete for them."
"That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake,
sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I
suppose?"
"Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate
and ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I
want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my
living."
"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to
look sober.
"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all
come."
"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry
them about."
"Why, mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six
or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow
Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of
char-a-banc.)
"All this will be expensive, Amy."
"Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself."
"Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things,
and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan
would be pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much
better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and
attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
"If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I
know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will
help a little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for
it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change
into obstinacy.
Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when
it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which
she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to
taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.
"Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your
way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper,
I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you
decide, I'll do my best to help you."
"Thanks, mother; you are always so kind"; and away went Amy to lay
her plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything
she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best
salt-spoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have
nothing to do with it at first.
"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family,
and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care
a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to
truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and
rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax
of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
"I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such
questions arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and
there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in
spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make
people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners
and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that
comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose
in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way."
When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the
best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side,
while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities
to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted
in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such
a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a
more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to
sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she
regarded as "a nonsensical business."
The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following
Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor
because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the
washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well
anywheres." This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had
a bad effect upon the whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil
desperandum," and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to
do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking
didn't turn out well: the chicken was tough, the tongue too salt,
and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice
cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and various other
expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather
alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had an
unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
"If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as
Amy declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best
joke of the season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.
If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday- an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state
which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little,
shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind until it
was too late for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn,
hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that
the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking
uncommonly shabby; but without stopping to sigh for what she had
not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs
over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls
with pictures framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with
homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did
the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely
hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and
silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg
and mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help
Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable
as an absent mind, an aching head, and a very decided disapproval of
everybody and everything would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy
cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch
safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon
of artistic delights; for the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge
were her strong points.
Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from
parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A
smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the
young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two
the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so
we must fly around and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke
her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished
she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake,
was getting a little stale.
"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad
to-day," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an
expression of placid despair.
"Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad,"
advised his wife.
Hannah left it on the kitchen-table a minute, and the kittens got at
it. "I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of
cats.
"Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy
decidedly.
"Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the
magnanimity of a martyr.
"You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just
to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning
to fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket,
she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled
spirit, and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the
object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to
prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well
pleased with her own forethought.
As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old
lady, Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by
trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she
with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a
new-comer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a
masculine voice said, "Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she
beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently
hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the
basket at her feet, and, congratulating herself that she had on her
new travelling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual
suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest
by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting
away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In
stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and- oh, horror!- the
lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the
high-born eyes of a Tudor.
"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious
youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and
preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
"Please don't- it's- it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as
red as her fish.
"Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober
interest that did credit to his breeding.
Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the
seat, and said, laughing-
"Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and
to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine
mind were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of
pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young
ladies" diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't
see them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered
that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the
rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went
through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than
before; and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the
neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the
memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success to-day; so she
ordered the "cherry-bounce," and drove away in state to meet and
escort her guests to the banquet.
"There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go into the porch to
meet them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a
good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the
action to the word, But after one glance, she retired, with an
indescribable expression, for, looking quite lost in the big carriage,
sat Amy and one young lady.
"Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table;
it will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single
girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to
stop even for a laugh.
In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest
who had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a
dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott
found them a most hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely
control the merriment which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being
gayly partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed
with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant
cherry-bounce!) and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood
till sunset, when "the party went out."
As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever,
she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had
disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's
mouth.
"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her
mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked
Meg soberly.
"Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it
will mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with
a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
"It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat
down to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and
the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly
observed, "Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and
Evelyn"- here a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history
of sallets," to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason
you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried
Amy, wiping her eyes.
"I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling
about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big
nut-shell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng,"
sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter.
"I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best
to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.
"I am satisfied; I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault
that it failed; I comfort myself with that," said Amy, with a little
quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and
I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at
least."
No one did for several months; but the word "fete" always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.






Chapter 27 - Literary Lessons


Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in
her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million
would have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came
to her in this wise.
Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it,
writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that
was finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit"
consisted of a black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her
pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful
red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared
for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family,
who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in
their heads semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius
burn, Jo?" They did not always venture even to ask this question,
but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this
expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was
a sign that hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was
pushed rakishly askew; and when despair seized the author it was
plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor. At such times the
intruder silently withdrew; and not until the red bow was seen gayly
erect upon the gifted brow, did any one dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the
writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather,
while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends
almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook
her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to
enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made
these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine
afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her
"vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was
prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return
for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course,
the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of
such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some
great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by
unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts
were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent
in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her
stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who
occupied the seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with
massive foreheads, and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and
making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly
holding each other by the hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints
out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap
behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a
studious-looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest
her, idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume,
tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two
infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big
eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a dishevelled female
was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to
turn a page, the lad saw her looking, and, with boyish good-nature,
offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a
first-rate story."
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking
for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of
love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of
light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the
author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of
one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over
their downfall.
"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.
"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned
Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a
good living out of such stories, they say"; and he pointed to the name
of Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
"No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."
"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and
Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and
thickly-sprinkled exclamation-points that adorned the page.
"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it."
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while
Prof. Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the
paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize
offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the
lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid
fortune for herself (not the first founded upon paper), and was
already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide
whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day,
much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious
when "genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now,
for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot,
language, and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and
despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable
emotions enabled her to make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she
wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement.
The manuscript was privately despatched, accompanied by a note,
modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the
writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any
sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl
to keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up
all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived
which almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a
hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if
it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the
amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what
intense happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would
devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo
valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and
after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had
learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation
story.
A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having
composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before
them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing
that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and
when the story came every one read and praised it; though after her
father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh
and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and
said in his unworldly way-
"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind
the money."
"I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.
"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered
Jo promptly.
"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath,
as if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and
motioned away the check which her sister waved before her.
"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I
tried for, and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think
of myself alone, so it will help me to work for you, don't you see?
Besides, Marmee needs the change, and she won't leave you, so you must
go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy again?
Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always cures her patients!"
To the seaside they went, after much discussion; and though Beth
didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much
better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo
was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work
with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.
She did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in
the house; for by the magic of a pen, her "rubbish" turned into
comforts for them all. "The Duke's Daughter" paid the butcher's
bill, "A Phantom Hand" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the
Coventrys" proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of
groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its
sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine
satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to
the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and
useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this
satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in
the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one
for a penny.
Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market;
and, encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for
fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it
to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and
trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on
condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts
which she particularly admired.
"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould,
pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and
get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,
but cash is more convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the
meeting on this important subject," said Jo, calling a family council.
"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you
know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in
no haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.
"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making the trial than by
waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work,
for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help
her to do better next time. We are too partial; but the praise and
blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little
money."
"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been
fussing over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good,
bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial
persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
"I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for
the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions
of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you
go on," said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most
remarkable novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief
and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" interrupted Jo,
turning to the publisher's note.
"Do as he tells you; he knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a
good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. By and by,
when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have
philosophical and metaphysical people in your novel," said Amy, who
took a strictly practical view of the subject.
"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and
metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such
things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some
of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for
me. Now, Beth, what do you say?"
"I should so like to see it printed soon," was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last
word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike
candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding
fear, and decided her to make her little venture "soon."
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born
on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope
of pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the
old man and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts
about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much
description; out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many
necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled
up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the
best intentions in life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which
relieved the sombre character of the story. Then, to complete the
ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor
little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world,
to try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it;
likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she
expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from
which it took her some time to recover.
"You said, mother, that criticism would help me; but how can it,
when it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a
promising book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo,
turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with
pride and joy one minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man
says, 'An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness;
all is sweet, pure, and healthy,'" continued the perplexed
authoress. "The next, 'The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid
fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.' Now, as I
had no theory of any kind, don't believe in Spiritualism, and copied
my characters from life, I don't see how this critic can be right.
Another says, 'It's one of the best American novels which has appeared
for years' (I know better than that); and the next asserts that
'though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it
is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of it, some
over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish
I'd printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation
liberally; yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who
meant so well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good,
for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is
an author's best education; and when the first soreness was over, she
could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel
herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said
stoutly; "and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts
that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as
impossible and absurd, and the scenes that I made up out of my own
silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So
I'll comfort myself with that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and
take another."


Chapter 28 - Domestic Experiences


Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise; he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one; for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was
too tired, sometimes, even to smile; John grew dyspeptic after a
course of dainty dishes, and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As
for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake
her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew
them on himself, and then see if his work would stand impatient tugs
and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they
couldn't live on love alone. John did not find Meg's beauty
diminished, though she beamed on him from behind the familiar
coffee-pot; nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily
parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender
inquiry, "Shall I send home veal or mutton for dinner, darling?" The
little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and
the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. At
first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children;
then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head
of a family upon his shoulders; and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius's
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited
in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would
be privately despatched with a batch of failures, which were to be
concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little
Hummels. An evening with John over the account-books usually
produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit
would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of
bread-pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul,
although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden
mean was found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what
young couples seldom get on long without- a family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with
home-made preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.
John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots, and
an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe, and were
to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that "my wife"
was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he
resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit
laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen
delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to
pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little
cap, arms bare to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a
coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work,
feeling no doubts about her success; for hadn't she seen Hannah do
it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first,
but John was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look
so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and
spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her
jelly. She did her best; she asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius; she
racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she had left undone;
she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff
wouldn't "jell."
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend a
hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any
one with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had
laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most
preposterous one; but they had held to their resolve, and whenever
they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for
Mrs. March had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the
refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat
down in her topsy-turvy kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up
her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said-
"My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever
he likes. I shall always be prepared; there shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you
please, and be sure of a welcome from me."
How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to
hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a
superior wife. But, although they had had company from time to time,
it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an
opportunity to distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in
this vale of tears; there is an inevitability about such things
which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would
have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in
the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.
Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that
morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and
indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would
produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he
escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible
satisfaction of a young host and husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached
the Dove-cote. The front door usually stood hospitably open; now it
was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the
steps. The parlor-windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the
pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting
little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy
welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a
soul appeared, but a sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the
currant-bushes.
"I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott,
while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and
solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt sugar,
and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He
paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared; but he
could both see and hear, and, being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect
mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair; one edition of jelly
was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a
third was burning gayly on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was
calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a
hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her
head, sat sobbing dismally.
"My dearest girl, what is the matter?" cried John, rushing in,
with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and
secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
"O John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at
it till I'm all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!" and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.
"What worries you, dear? Has anything dreadful happened?" asked
the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap,
which was all askew.
"Yes," sobbed Meg despairingly.
"Tell me quick then. Don't cry, I can bear anything better than
that. Out with it, love."
"The- the jelly won't jell and I don't know what to do!"
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward; and
the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal,
which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg's woe.
"Is that all? Fling it out of window, and don't bother any more
about it. I'll buy you quarts if you want it; but for heaven's sake
don't have hysterics, for I've brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and-"
John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands
with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone
of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay "A man to dinner, and
everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?"
"Hush, he's in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it
can't be helped now," said John, surveying the prospect with an
anxious eye.
"You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought
to have remembered how busy I was," continued Meg petulantly; for even
turtle-doves will peck when ruffled.
"I didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send
word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave,
when you have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it
before, and hang me if I ever do again!" added John, with an aggrieved
air.
"I should hope not! Take him away at once; I can't see him, and
there isn't any dinner."
"Well, I like that! Where's the beef and vegetables I sent home, and
the pudding you promised?" cried John, rushing to the larder.
"I hadn't time to cook anything; I meant to dine at mother's. I'm
sorry, but I was so busy"; and Meg's tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human; and after a long day's
work, to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic
house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to
repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself, however, and the
little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
"It's a scrape, I acknowledge; but if you will lend a hand, we'll
pull through, and have a good time yet. Don't cry, dear, but just
exert yourself a bit, and knock us up something to eat. We're both
as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is. Give us the cold
meat, and bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly."
He meant it for a good-natured joke; but that one word sealed his
fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure,
and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
"You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up
to 'exert' myself for any one. It's like a man to propose a bone and
vulgar bread and cheese for company. I won't have anything of the sort
in my house. Take that Scott up to mother's, and tell him I'm away,
sick, dead- anything. I won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and
my jelly as much as you like: you won't have anything else here";
and having delivered her defiance all in one breath, Meg cast away her
pinafore, and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her
own room.
What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew; but Mr.
Scott was not taken "up to mother's," and when Meg descended, after
they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous
lunch which filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten
"a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all
the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
Meg longed to go and tell mother; but a sense of shame at her own
shortcomings, of loyalty to John, "who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it," restrained her; and after a summary clearing up,
she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come
and be forgiven.
Unfortunately, John didn't come, not seeing the matter in that
light. He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his
little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably
that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come
again. But John was angry, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg
had got him into a scrape, and then deserted him in his hour of
need. "It wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with
perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up and
blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No,
by George, it wasn't! and Meg must know it." He had fumed inwardly
during the feast, but when the flurry was over, and he strolled
home, after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came over him. "Poor
little thing! it was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to
please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was young. I must be
patient and teach her." He hoped she had not gone home-he hated gossip
and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere
thought of it; and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick
softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be
calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed
in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be "calm and kind, but firm," and show
him his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be
kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being; but, of course, she
did nothing of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum
quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in
her best parlor.
John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe; but,
feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,
only came leisurely in, and laid himself upon the sofa, with the
singularly relevant remark-
"We are going to have a new moon, my dear."
"I've no objection," was Meg's equally soothing remark.
A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr.
Brooke, and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished.
John went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in
it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed
as if new rosettes for her slippers were among the necessaries of
life. Neither spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both
felt desperately uncomfortable.
"Oh dear," thought Meg, "married life is very trying, and does
need infinite patience, as well as love, as mother says." The word
"mother" suggested other maternal counsels, given long ago, and
received with unbelieving protests.
"John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to
see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided,
but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose
impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth- a
good trait, though you call him 'fussy.' Never deceive him by look
or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the
support you need. He has a temper, not like ours- one flash, and
then all over- but the white, still anger, that is seldom stirred, but
once kindled, is hard to quench. Be careful, very careful, not to wake
this anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping
his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both
err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty
words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."
These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset,
especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement; her
own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled
them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John
coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him
with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them; she put down her work
and got up, thinking, "I will be the first to say, 'Forgive me,'"
but he did not seem to hear her; she went very slowly across the room,
for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn
his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it;
then came the thought, "This is the beginning, I'll do my part, and
have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly
kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it; the
penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on
his knee in a minute, saying tenderly "It was too bad to laugh at
the poor little jelly-pots. Forgive me, dear, I never will again!"
But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg,
both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made; for
family peace was preserved in that little family jar.
After this Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and
served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course; on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made
everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a
happy fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood
all the way home.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat
renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at
the little house, or inviting "that poor dear" to come in and spend
the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg
often felt lonely; all were busy at home, John absent till night,
and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally
fell out that Meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her
friend. Seeing Sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity
herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and
often offered her the coveted trifles; but Meg declined them,
knowing John wouldn't like it; and then this foolish little woman went
and did what John disliked infinitely worse.
She knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted
her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more- his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she
liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every
penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor
man's wife. Till now, she had done well, been prudent and exact,
kept her little account-books neatly, and showed them to him monthly
without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg's paradise, and
tempted her, like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with
dress. Meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor; it
irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she
tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that Sallie
needn't think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it,
for the pretty things were seldom necessaries; but then they cost so
little, it wasn't worth worrying about; so the trifles increased
unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a
passive looker-on.
But the trifles cost more than one would imagine; and when she
cast up her accounts at the end of the month, the sum total rather
scared her. John was busy that month, and left the bills to her; the
next month he was absent; but the third he had a grand quarterly
settling up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she had done a
dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been
buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one- just a handsome light
one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for
evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the
sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year; that
was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a
bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it. John
always said what was his was hers; but would he think it right to
spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another
five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question.
Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to loan the money, and with
the best intentions in life, had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In
an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and
said, "A bargain, I assure you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take
it"; and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and
she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven
away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were
after her.
When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by
spreading forth the lovely silk; but it looked less silvery now,
didn't become her, after all, and the words "fifty dollars" seemed
stamped like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away; but it
haunted her, not delightfully, as a new dress should, but
dreadfully, like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When
John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and, for the
first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The
kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern; and though he was
unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean
to let her know it. The house-bills were all paid, the books all in
order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook
which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that it was quite
empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously, "You haven't seen my
private expense book yet."
John never asked to see it; but she always insisted on his doing so,
and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women
wanted, and made him guess what "piping" was, demand fiercely the
meaning of a "hug-me-tight," or wonder how a little thing composed
of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could
possibly be a bonnet, and cost five or six dollars. That night he
looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and
pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being
particularly proud of his prudent wife.
The little book was brought slowly out, and laid down before him.
Meg got behind his chair under pretence of smoothing the wrinkles
out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her
panic increasing with every word-
"John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been
dreadfully extravagant lately. I go about so much I must have
things, you know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did; and my
New-Year's money will partly pay for it: but I was sorry after I'd
done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me."
John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying
good-humoredly, "Don't go and hide. I won't beat you if you have got a
pair of killing boots; I'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't
mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they
are good ones."
That had been one of her last "trifles," and John's eye had fallen
on it as he spoke. "Oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful
fifty dollars!" thought Meg, with a shiver.
"It's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the
calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
"Well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total,' as Mr. Mantalini says?"
That didn't sound like John, and she knew he was looking up at her
with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet
and answer with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her
head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad
enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that
added. For a minute the room was very still; then John said slowly-
but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure-
"Well, I don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the
fur-belows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."
"It isn't made or trimmed," sighed Meg faintly, for a sudden
recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
"Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small
woman, but I've no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned Moffat's
when she gets it on," said John dryly.
"I know you are angry, John, but I can't help it. I don't mean to
waste your money, and I didn't think those little things would count
up so. I can't resist them when I see Sallie buying all she wants, and
pitying me because I don't. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and
I'm tired of being poor."
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear
them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied
himself many pleasures for Meg's sake. She could have bitten her
tongue out the minute she had said it, but John pushed the books away,
and got up, saying, with a little quiver in his voice, "I was afraid
of this; I do my best, Meg." If he had scolded her, or even shaken
her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words. She
ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "O
John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy, I didn't mean it! It was so
wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could I say it! Oh, how could
I say it!"
He was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one
reproach; but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which
would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it
again. She had promised to love him for better for worse; and then
she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his
earnings recklessly. It was dreadful; and the worst of it was John
went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened,
except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she
had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg
sick; and the discovery that John had countermanded the order for
his new great-coat reduced her to a state of despair which was
pathetic to behold. He had simply said, in answer to her surprised
inquiries as to the change, "I can't afford it, my dear."
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the
hall, with her face buried in the old great-coat, crying as if her
heart would break.
They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned to love her husband
better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught
him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural
longings and failures of those he loved.
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the
truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs.
Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a
present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the
great-coat, and, when John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how
he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how
he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.
John came home early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat was
put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at
night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and
at midsummer there came to Meg a new experience- the deepest and
tenderest of a woman's life.
Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dove-cote, one
Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of
cymbals; for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the
cover in the other.
"How's the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn't you tell
me before I came home?" began Laurie, in a loud whisper.
"Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of 'em is upstairs a
worshipin'; we didn't want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the
parlor, and I'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved
reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth
upon a large pillow. Jo's face was very sober, but her eyes
twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion
of some sort.
"Shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.
Laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands
behind him with an imploring gesture: "No, thank you, I'd rather
not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."
"Then you shan't see your nevvy," said Jo decidedly, turning as if
to go.
"I will, I will! only you must be responsible for damages"; and,
obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes and something was
put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March,
Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find
himself invested with two babies instead of one.
No wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll
enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the
unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators, with such dismay
that Jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
"Twins, by Jupiter!" was all he said for a minute; then, turning
to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he
added, "Take 'em quick, somebody! I'm going to laugh, and I shall drop
'em."
John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each
arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, while
Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"It's the best joke of the season, isn't it? I wouldn't have you
told, for I set my heart on surprising you, and I flatter myself, I've
done it," said Jo, when she got her breath.
"I never was more staggered in my life. Isn't it fun? Are they boys?
What are you going to name them? Let's have another look. Hold me
up, Jo; for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned Laurie,
regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent Newfoundland
looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
"Boy and girl. Aren't they beauties?" said the proud papa, beaming
upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
"Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?" and Laurie
bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
"Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French
fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one
brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy," said wicked Jo.
"I'm afraid they mightn't like it," began Laurie, with unusual
timidity in such matters.
"Of course they will; they are used to it now. Do it this minute,
sir!" commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
Laurie screwed up his face, and obeyed with a gingerly peck at
each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies
squeal.
"There, I knew they didn't like it! That's the boy; see him kick; he
hits out with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch
into a man of your own size, will you?" cried Laurie, delighted with a
poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
"He's to be named John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother
and grandmother. We shall call her Daisy, so as not to have two
Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better
name," said Amy, with aunt-like interest.
"Name him Demijohn, and call him 'Demi' for short," said Laurie.
"Daisy and Demi- just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it," cried
Jo, clapping her hands.
Teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were "Daisy"
and "Demi" to the end of the chapter.






Chapter 29 - Calls


"Come, Jo, it's time."
"For what?"
"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to
make half a dozen calls with me to-day?"
"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I
don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one
day, when a single one upsets me for a week."
"Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the
crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and
return our neighbors' visits."
"If it was fair- that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter
of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's not
fair, and I don't go."
"Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and
you pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do
your duty, and then be at peace for another six months."
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for
she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit
to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was
very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and
ordered out to make calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She
hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy
compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present
instance, there was no escape; and having clashed her scissors
rebelliously, while protesting that she smelt thunder, she gave in,
put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of
resignation, told Amy the victim was ready.
"Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't
intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying
her with amazement.
"Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a
dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they
do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as
elegant as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for
me, and furbelows only worry me."
"Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will
drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's
no pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and
there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo,
if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the
civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things,
and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm
afraid to go alone; do come and take care of me."
"You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross
old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and
well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know
which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You
shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that
satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to
lamb-like submission.
"You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and
I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a
good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd
only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way,
and put the pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look
too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the
embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white
sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one."
While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled
into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her
bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with
pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as
she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating
to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings; and when she
had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a
tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an
imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly-
"I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I
die happy."
"You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a
careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there,
then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes,
you'll do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with
the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry
your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one
thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl- I can't; but it's
very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that
lovely one; it's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm
are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have
I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are
pretty, though my nose isn't."
"You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking
through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather
against the gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust,
or loop it up, please, ma'am?"
"Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping
style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts
gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once.
You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little
details, for they make up the pleasing whole."
Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in
doing up her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away,
looking as "pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the
upper window to watch them.
"Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people,
so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your
abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool,
and quiet- that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for
fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having
borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on
each arm.
"Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet'- yes, I think I can promise
that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll
try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in
your mind, my child."
Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for,
during the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed,
every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a
snow-bank, and as silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded
to her "charming novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties,
picnics, the opera, and the fashions; each and all were answered by
a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain
Amy telegraphed the word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and
administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly
unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, "icily
regular, splendidly null."
"What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March
is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the
door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through
the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions,
and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo.
"How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and
stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and
be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.
They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know,
and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."
"I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and
raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll
imitate what is called 'a charming girl'; I can do it, for I have
May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs
don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'"
Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish
there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when
she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young
ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and
join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was
taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and
forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three
delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they
might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to
check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked
away as volubly as the old lady. A knot of heads gathered about her,
and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on; for broken
sentences filled her with alarm, round eyes and uplifted hands
tormented her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made
her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on
overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:
"She rides splendidly- who taught her?"
"No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and
sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything,
for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have
horses cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has
such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she
can be a horse-breaker, and get her living so."
At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for
the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young
lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for
the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was
done Jo was off again, making more droll revelations, and committing
still more fearful blunders.
"Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were
gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so
balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start.
Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
"Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who
enjoyed the subject.
"None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over
the river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to
try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really
pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she
took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed
it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to
the utter amazement of the old man!"
"Did she ride the horse?"
"Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her
brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was
the life of the party."
"Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
girl look so red and uncomfortable.
She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One
of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she
wore to the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place
where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary
frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we
paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic
sister."
"Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great
fun.
"That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances.
There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue
boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones
the loveliest shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked
exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's
accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be
a relief to throw her card-case at her.
"We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very
much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the
literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be
confessed.
Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who
either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a
brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to
read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people
like it. Are you going to New York this winter?"
As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her
mistake; but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered
that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did
so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished
sentences in their mouths.
"Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear; do come and see us; we are pining
for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb; but if you should
come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away."
Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing
style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a
strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
"Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they
walked away.
"Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats
and boots, and all the rest of it?"
"Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so
it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a
season, and have things as easy and fine as they do."
"You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose
our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of
proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when
to speak," said Amy despairingly.
Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with
the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her
misdemeanors.
"How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.
"Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short
answer.
"Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for
elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo
gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit.
An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty
children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to
entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling
likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks, and found the
change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest,
caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that
"Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise;
and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an
alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady
settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial
hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most
faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.
Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy
herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an
English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded
the whole family with great respect; for, in spite of her American
birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which
haunts the best of us- that unacknowledged loyalty to the early
faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a
ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago,
and which still has something to do with the love the young country
bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little
mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell
scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a
distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy
forgetful of time; and when the proper number of minutes had passed,
she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and
looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister
would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon
the name of March.
It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on
the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed
dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she
related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small
child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was
eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball
with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo
collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her,
begging her to come again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's
larks."
"Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after
that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from
habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
"Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining
from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance.
"Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his
father and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is
fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let
him alone."
"You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and
just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy
Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just
reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy
reprovingly.
"No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect,
nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece
was third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and
very clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he
is a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels."
"It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy.
"Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable,
and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm
deeply grateful."
The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on,
and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and
being told that the young ladies were engaged.
"Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run
down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the
dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
"Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her
the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a
little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe
it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and
clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off
of your bonnet."
"What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance
from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh
and spotless still. "I wish it was easy for me to do little things
to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too
much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great
favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I
fancy."
Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air-
"Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for
they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If
you'd remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am,
because there is more of you."
"I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing
to own that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for
a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's
a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"
"It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying
that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called
upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making
yourself disagreeable because he is."
"But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young
men; and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does
not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to
manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him
without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can."
"Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of
other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would
have convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were
belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something,
perhaps; but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because
we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do,
wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered
odd and puritanical."
"So we are to countenance things and people which we detest,
merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a
nice sort of morality."
"I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world;
and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their
pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be
one."
"I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for, in spite of the
laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree
about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you
will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I
should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think."
"Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new
ideas."
"I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her;
it's my doom, and I can't help it."
They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very
interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with
a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their
nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but
Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased
everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit
was felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately,
looking what they afterwards said emphatically- "That child improves
every day."
"Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol,
as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people
like so well in the young.
"Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to
tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give."
"I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the
Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their
highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you
to work."
"I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the
Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor
and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
"Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear;
it's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do
not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her
spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat
morose expression.
If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the
balance for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute;
but, unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot
see what goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we
cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a
comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo
deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely
lesson in the art of holding her tongue.
"I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave.
I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."
"Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.
"I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in
the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
"Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on
Amy's.
"Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as
often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused
the old lady to smile affably.
"How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.
"Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't
bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the
brusque reply.
Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to
Amy, "You are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes
don't trouble you any more, do they?"
"Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great
things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that
joyful time arrives."
"Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her
ball for her.

"Cross-patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin,"

squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair
to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry
that it was impossible to help laughing.
"Most observing bird," said the old lady.
"Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the
china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar.
"Thank you, I will. Come, Amy"; and Jo brought the visit to an
end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad
effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner,
but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving
behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression
caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished "You'd better do it,
Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I
certainly will, if her father and mother consent."






Chapter 30 - Consequences


Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be
invited to take a table, and every one was much interested in the
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her
life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on
easily. The "haughty, uninteresting creature" was let severely
alone; but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the
offer of the art-table, and she exerted herself to prepare and
secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.
Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened;
then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost
impossible to avoid, when some five and twenty women, old and young,
with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.
May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a
greater favorite than herself; and, just at this time, several
trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's
dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases- that
was one thorn; then the all-conquering Tudor had danced four times
with Amy, at a late party, and only once with May- that was thorn
number two; but the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave
her an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some
obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made
fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen
upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape
detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to
escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's
dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she
was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who,
of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in
a bland tone, but with a cold look-
"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies
about my giving this table to any one but my girls. As this is the
most prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and
they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them
to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely
interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment,
and you shall have another table if you like."
Mrs. Chester had fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver
this little speech; but when the time came, she found it rather
difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes
looking straight at her, full of surprise and trouble.
Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess
what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did-
"Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"
"Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg; it's merely a
matter of expediency, you see; my girls will naturally take the
lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it very
appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it
so pretty; but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I
will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the
flower-table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged.
You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower-table is
always attractive, you know."
"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which
enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She
colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and
answered, with unexpected amiability-
"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here
at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."
"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,"
began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at
the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had
so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but
Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly-
"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way"; and sweeping her
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling
that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.
"Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak,
mamma," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her
table.
"Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a
trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.
The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which
cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she
fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not
artistically. But everything seemed against her: it was late, and she
was tired; every one was too busy with their own affairs to help
her; and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed
and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion
in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The
evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and
threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were
filled; her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear
on the Cupid's cheek; she bruised her hands with hammering, and got
cold working in a draught, which last affliction filled her with
apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl-reader who has suffered like
afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy, and wish her well through
with her task.
There was great indignation at home when she told her story that
evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done
right; Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all; and Jo
demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those
mean people to get on without her.
"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such
things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend
to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy
actions, won't they, Marmee?"
"That's the right spirit, my dear; a kiss for a blow is always best,
though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with
the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and
practising.
In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and
retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on
conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent
reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she
arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in an
ante-room filling the baskets, she took up her pet production- a
little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his
treasures, and in which, on leaves of vellum, she had beautifully
illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages, rich in dainty
devices, with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse
that made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scroll-work of
scarlet, blue, and gold, with little spirits of good-will helping
one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the
words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright
page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not
hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a
minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet
rebuke for all heart-burnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many
wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious
ministers in street, school, office, or home; even a fair-table may
become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which
are never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon
from that text, then and there; and she did what many of us do not
always do- took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in
practice.
A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the
pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped
their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side
of the story, and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a
better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for
proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully-
"It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I
don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just
complete then: now it's spoilt."
"I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested some
one.
"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish,
for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly-
"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I
was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to
your table rather than mine. Here they are; please take them, and
forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."
As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile,
and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly
thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.
"Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl.
May's answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was
evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a
disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn't sell
them at her own table."
Now, that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have
them appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had
done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is-
as she presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and her
table to blossom under her skillful hands; the girls were very kind,
and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere
amazingly.
It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her
table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon: few
cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long
before night.
The art-table was the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd
about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and
fro with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked
wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and
happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no
hardship to some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not
only tedious, but very trying; and the thought of being found there in
the evening by her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a
real martyrdom.
She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and
quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no
complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave
her an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a
charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by
getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the
tables were about to be turned.
"Don't do anything rude, pray, Jo. I won't have any fuss made, so
let it all pass, and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed
early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor
little table.
"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every
one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy
and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet,"
returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently
the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.
"Is that my boy?"
"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his
arm, with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.
"O Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and
I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and
camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her
cause with warmth.
"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may
not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I
shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean
thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo, in a disgusted
tone.
"Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."
"I didn't know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa
was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want
some."
"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking! They are
just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in
everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn
thorny.
"Gracious, I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn't suit
me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here; I've got to help
Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid; and if you'll be so very
kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll
bless you forever."
"Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut
the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the
bars, "Go away, Teddy; I'm busy."
Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night; for
Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket,
arranged in his best manner, for a centre-piece; then the March family
turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for
people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring
Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie
and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought
up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the
liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of
gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible-
coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own
reward, after all.
Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was
happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the
hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon
the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself
for her share of the ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as
soon as possible; she also discovered what Amy had done about the
things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As
she passed the art-table, she glanced over it for her sister's things,
but saw no signs of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say,"
thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any
insult offered to her family.
"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May, with a
conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be
generous.
"She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she
is enjoying herself. The flower-table is always attractive, you
know, 'especially to gentlemen.'"
Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so
meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great
vases, which still remained unsold.
"Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that
for father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's
work.
"Everything of Amy's sold long ago; I took care that the right
people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,"
returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as
Amy, that day.
Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked
both touched and surprised by the report of May's words and manner.
"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other
tables as generously as you have by mine- especially the art-table,"
she said, ordering out "Teddy's Own," as the girls called the
college friends.
"'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table; but do your
duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense
of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx
prepared to take the field.
"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 good-night,
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 tidings 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."
"O 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 is 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 31 - Our Foreign Correspondent


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 note-book, 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. Every one was very kind to
me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are
necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait 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! I 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 main-top
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 country-seats 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 one of my new acquaintances left us- Mr. Lennox- and
when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and
sung, 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
dog-skin 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 give
'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 travelling.
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 guide-book and wouldn't be
astonished at anything. This is the way we went on, Amy flying up-
"Oh, that must he Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo,
darting to my window- "How sweet! We must go there some time, 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 cross-beam 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 Capt. 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 break-neck 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.
To-day 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. Every one rides- old men, stout ladies,
little children- and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw
a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear 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.


Midnight.

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 theatre 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 known 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, theatres, 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 hearts' 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 that 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 cultivating 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 Royal 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 the 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 kisses 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 image, 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 in 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 guide-books, and read about it;
I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz 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 some one 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.
Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe'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 every one 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 is just
gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him;
I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the
serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walk,
balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than
fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remember 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 as 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 cosy all
around. 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 any
one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an
Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his
friend- a rakish-looking baron- about "ein wunderschones 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 Poste
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
Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the
Austrian hand below, and waiting for my lover, like a real
story-book 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, in 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 him anything, 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
knew 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
awhile, for he 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 wish 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 32 - Tender Troubles


"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 it 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 is 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 any one else. Be very kind,
and don't let her think any one 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 to-night."
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 glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a
tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant
Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to
her eyes more than once, 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 dreamt of such a thing. What will mother
say? I wonder if he-" 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 mischievous-looking 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 weather-cock; 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 any one dared to
suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the
past year, or rather attempts at 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 hope, 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 of 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 Sanscrit. 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 every one 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 defence, 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 pummelled with it in former days
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from
taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If
"the sausage" as they 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 the 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 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 the 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
must have a went."
"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 is 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,
straight-forward 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 kept 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 gentlemen. 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 mammas, 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 spoilt, 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 had 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, "Why 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 away, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"
Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand
went involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the
other she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "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 alone 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. I 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 still may 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 tragical. 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
love-lornity."
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 "love-lornity" 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 to 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 33 - Jo's Journal


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 travelling 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 spoilt, 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 work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new
friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so
good-night, and more to-morrow.


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 button-holes, when the
parlor-door opened and shut, and some one began to hum-

"Kennst du das Land,"

like a big bumble-bee. 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 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 my 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 sweet-faced 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
shovelled 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 cosy, 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 Kirke 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 young 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. K. 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 to-day (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
an 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 heard 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 to-day, 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.


Saturday.

Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton,
who has a room full of lovely 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 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 hack, Kitty leading him with a jump-rope,
and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, 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 sung, and when it began to
grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about the Professor, while
he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney-tops,
and the little "kobolds," 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 every one.

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 Betsy:

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 to me 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 them 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 mantel-piece 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 great rummage
three of the missing articles were found- one over the bird-cage,
one covered with ink, and a third burnt brown, having been used as a
holder.
"Such a man!" laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in
the rag-bag. "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 good-natured, he lets those boys ride over
him rough-shod. 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 learn; 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 that 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 opserve 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 the
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 of 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 with 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 Andersen'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 the 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 a 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 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 mantel-piece as an article of
vertu; 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 laundry-woman 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 the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff
and cool, most of them; and so I am to whipper-snappers) 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 theatres. 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 34 - A Friend


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: money and power,
therefore, she resolved to have; not to be used for herself alone, but
for those whom she loved more than self.
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 travelling and much up-hill 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 bean-stalks 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 money-bags.
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
business-like tone.
Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were
its pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent 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. Dashwood'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 often 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 to 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 board 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 should 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. Wrong-doing 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 known 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 every one 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 towards one's fellow-men could beautify and
dignify even a stout German teacher, who shovelled 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, 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 literary 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 worshipped 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 out-manoeuvring 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
desillusionnee, 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
conversation was 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 grimmest 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,
out-talked, but not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands
and thank him.
She did neither; but she remembered this 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 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 an air of 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 villain, 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 like to think
that good 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 whiskey, 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 sugar-plum, 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 re-read every one of her stories. Being a little
short-sighted, 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 got 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 than 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 months' 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 father and mother 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; and Jo corked up her inkstand, and said, in a fit of very
wholesome humility-
"I don't know anything; I'll wait till 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 bean-stalk 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. Every one 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 good-by over night; 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
towzled 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 and 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 35 - Heartache


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 to-morrow; 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
the 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 jews-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 little
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 jews-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 lover-like.
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 far-away 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 impetuosity, 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 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."
"Yes, 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 see 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 that 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.
"O Teddy, I'm so 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 some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget
all this trouble."
"I can't love any one 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 unmanageable 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 it 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 you 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! Every one 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 bare 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 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 any 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 tragical.
"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he 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 fire to 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 many a 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 love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then
went to his piano, and began to play. The windows 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 just 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 some one 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 till you take my place, and
can be off at any time."
"But you hate travelling, 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,
stiffing 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 travelling
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 gentlemen 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 tragical 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 every one 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
gayety 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,
with 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 both eloquent and pathetic.
"O 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 36 - Beth's Secret


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 little 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 for a 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 the
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 any one else; so they were all in all to each other,
and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited 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 shadow 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 gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than
ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from 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, and 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, and 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 any one. 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."
"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you!
How could you shut me out, and 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 good-by to health, love, and life, 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 that 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, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your
poor little heart full of love-lornity 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 never could 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 to 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 any one
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, 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 turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes 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 at 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
mantel-piece, 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 37 - New Impressions


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 he 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 criticizing
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
button-holes, 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, or lady 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 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.
"O 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 all 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 to-night."
"What happens then, a ball?"
"A Christmas party at our 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 banker's 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 get 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 some one 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 told 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'd 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 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 on to 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 is 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 our 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 chasseed 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 debonnaire, 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 to-day, 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 lustre 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 for
the supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might
devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed 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 travelling young
gentlemen, who disported themselves gayly, 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 divinely;
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,
Divinely tall, and most divinely 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 Tarantula with a
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 of penitence. She showed him her ball-book with
demure satisfaction when he strolled, instead of rushing, up to
claim her for the next, a glorious polka-redowa; but his polite
regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she gallopaded 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 every one, 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 Joneses gambolled like a flock of young
giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a
meteor, with a dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted 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 shone; his coat-tails 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-meme,'" 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 bolt 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 irresistible 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 the 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, nor 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 38 - On the Shelf


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
every one 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 am 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 gayly 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 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 work basket 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 any one except you, mother; but I really do need
advice, for, if John goes on so 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 his 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 spoilt 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 get 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 always were 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 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 mind 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 sung and rocked, told
stories and tried every sleep-provoking 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 tiptoeing 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 to-night. Do you expect
company?"
"Only you, dear."
"Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"
"No; I'm tired of being a 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 to 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 a joyful tone, as he entered, with
his long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every
curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying 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 forbidding 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 short-sighted 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 to go 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 the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which
lively performance 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 spoilt 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 spread-eagle 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 a wiser
baby. So held, John had waited with 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 clew
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 that 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-theatre bonnet."
"I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for
one of the fly-away 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 every one was better for the division of
labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for
accurate, steadfast 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 home-like again, and
John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The
Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and every one found the little
house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love.
Even gay Sallie Moffat 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 loneliness; for
there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a
world of his 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 a wise wife
and mother.






Chapter 39 - Lazy Laurence


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 home-like 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 sunk 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 quarrelled- Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie
was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an
inquiring air; she answered 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 button-hole, 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 sketch-book with an air of
resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and
in a minute she began.
"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 air 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 spoilt 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 prim 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 upon 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
some one 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 of 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 have been 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's 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 might and 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 any one
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 every one knew 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 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 saw 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 efficacious 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 Baptiste, up
behind, thought that monsieur and mademoiselle 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 gayety, 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, mademoiselle," 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 hand-shake than all the sentimental
salutations in France."
"Good-by, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she
liked, Laurie left her, after a hand-shake 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 40 - The Valley of the Shadow


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 work-table, 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 needle-book
for some small mother of many dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen
toiling through forests of pot-hooks, scrap-books for picture-loving
eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant
climbers up 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 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 "Pilgrim'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 divine
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 forevermore
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.
"O 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 some
one 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 end so 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 fair and early, and the birds came back
in time to say good-by 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 the 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 snow-drops 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 41 - Learning to Forget


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 spoilt 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 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 bandanna, barricading herself with the
sofa-pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge-
and an irresistible laugh spoilt 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 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 every one 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 up 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 me 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,
tender-hearted 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 subsiding 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 these
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 to keep a little
corner of his heart 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 "our 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 were 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
stony-hearted. 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 sisters' 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 ball-room 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, the grass was green above her
sister. The sad news met her at Vevey, 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 good-by 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 Vevey 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 monsieur 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 court-yard 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-
"O 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 he, 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 very 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 loneliness 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 Vevey, 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 rapid 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 denouement would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
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 Vevey 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 arrangement.
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 42 - All Alone


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 loneliness 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 don'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 some one 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 an unsubmissive
sorrow, "O 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 strengthened 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 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 round the
little mop and the old brush, that was 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 cosey, 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 kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some 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 for 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 kernel sound and sweet. If she
had 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 story-book, 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 overshadowed 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
no thought of fame or 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 to 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, though 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 lover-like 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 word 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 scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's confidante now."
"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied
it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one 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 is, 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. O 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 work-a-day 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 some one 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 owner's 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 re-lived 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 if 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 kind, 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 every one 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 43 - Surprises


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 to-morrow 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 so 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, tragical
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-
"O my Teddy! O 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 upon 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 eyes 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 spoilt 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 alone, 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 words, 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 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
change 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 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 both 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 want 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 quite cheerful-
"No, I had father and mother to help me, 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, at first; 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 liked 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 of 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 every one 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. Moffat 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, and hear
folks calling little Amy, Mis. Laurence?" muttered old Hannah, who
could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the
table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner.
Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then
all burst out together, trying to tell the history of three years in
half an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull
and provide refreshment, for they would have been hoarse and faint
if they had gone on much longer. Such 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,
with trembling lips, "I'll try to fill her place, sir."
The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand,
for every one was so busy with the new-comers 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 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 fish-balls 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 loneliness 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 it 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.
"O 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 had any doubts about his reception, they were
set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Every
one 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 traveller who knocks at a strange door, and, when it opens, finds
himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honey-pot;
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 eye 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 wrist-bands!
"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 manoeuvre did not succeed as well as she expected, however; for,
though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral-pile, 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 skilfully
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 mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had
tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his night-gown 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 thoughtless 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 indissoluble. 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 to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night."
But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill; for
she sung Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the
best master could not have taught, and touched the listeners' 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 no one had called her by
her new name since he 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 hearth-rug, 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 44 - My Lord and Lady


"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 forget 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 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 spoilt. 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, who was flitting about,
arranging her new art treasures-
"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."
"O 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."
"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 dimple 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 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 last 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 gentlefolks 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 blarneying 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 heroes, 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 beggar-maid 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 Dorcas, 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 home-like 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 45 - Daisy and Demi


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 spoilt 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 the 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 "sewin-sheen"- a mysterious structure of string,
chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and
wound"; also a basket hung over the back of a big 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 night-gown to look out, and say, no
matter whether it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!"
Every one was a friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so
confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and
baby-lovers became faithful worshippers.
"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 Dove-cote would be
blest 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 as 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 of 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 questions 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 parents' 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 short-sighted 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 liked to play with
"the bear-man" better than she did with 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 "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 of
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 revelled 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 grovellers 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
took 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 to-day, 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 his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.
"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air
of bland satisfaction.
"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo,
enjoying the innocent revelations 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 artlessly inquired-
"Do great boys like great girls, too, '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 clothes-brush, 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 46 - Under the Umbrella


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 often 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 till 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
about 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, every one knew perfectly well what was going on,
yet every one 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 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' hall-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 to me, of course; but I should think he would have come and
bid us good-by, 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 some one, 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 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 mud. 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 he 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 to me?" 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 am 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 time more 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
despatch 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 not do a little what you call shopping for the babies,
and haf a farewell feast to-night 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?" said 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 surely drink to the Fatherland in
those?"
Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he
didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of
almonds, and 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 the knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up
the old umbrella, and they travelled 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 flower-pot 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 which 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, 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 arm, 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
demonstrations 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 hat-brim 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 good-by, 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; so be 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 most 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."
Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had
christened-


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 happy 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 school-books 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 canonized 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.

J. M.


"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 its 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 give 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 he 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 47 - Harvest Time


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."
"There'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
of 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
can 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 or proper than for my
Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside on 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, Mrs.
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 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
mismanagement 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 business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not
merely a business man: 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 every one 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 disappoint 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 white head, 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 uplifted 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 up-hill 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
wrong-doings; 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 every one
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 birds' 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, 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 milk while standing on their heads, others lent
a charm to leap-frog 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, from 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 shoe-box was a miracle of
mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool
had a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very
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 this 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 sung with all their hearts, the little song 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 fulfil 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 blest; 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 tender-hearted 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 every one 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 could 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-
"O my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a
greater happiness than this!"

The End.