Little_Women7.txt

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

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
tomorrow. You’ll come and meet me as usual, girls?” Laurie said, as he
put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.
He said ‘girls’, but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up
the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid,
successful boy anything, and answered warmly…

“I’ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing ‘Hail
the conquering hero comes’ on a jew’s-harp.”

Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic,
“Oh, deary me! I know he’ll say something, and then what shall I do?”

Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and
having decided that she wouldn’t be vain enough to think people were
going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her
answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy
wouldn’t do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at
Meg’s, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart
figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about
and run away.

“Where’s the jew’s-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as he was within
speaking distance.

“I forgot it.” And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not
be called 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 faraway subjects, till they turned from the road
into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he
walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now
and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from
one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
hastily, “Now you must have a good long holiday!”

“I intend to.”

Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, “No,
Teddy. Please don’t!”

“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo, we’ve got to have it
out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting
flushed and excited all at once.

“Say what you like then. I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort
of patience.

Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to ‘have it
out’, if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now
and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady…

“I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo, couldn’t help it, you’ve
been so good to me. I’ve tried to show it, but you wouldn’t let me.
Now I’m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can’t go
on so any longer.”

“I wanted to save you this. I thought you’d understand…” began Jo,
finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

“I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they
mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits
just for the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an
undeniable fact.

“I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away
to keep you from it if I could.”

“I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you
all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards
and everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I
hoped you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough…” Here there was
a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while
he cleared his ‘confounded throat’.

“You, you are, you’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful
to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don’t know why I can’t love you
as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t change the feeling, and it
would be a lie to say I do when I don’t.”

“Really, truly, Jo?”

He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with
a look that she did not soon forget.

“Really, truly, dear.”

They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words
fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.
So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still
that Jo was frightened.

“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it
would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard, I can’t help
it. You know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love other
people if they don’t,” cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she
softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted
her so long ago.

“They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post. “I don’t
believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not try it,” was
the decided answer.

There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow
by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said
very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, “Laurie, I want
to tell you something.”

He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in
a fierce tone, “Don’t tell me that, Jo, I can’t bear it now!”

“Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence.

“That you love that old man.”

“What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

“That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you
love him, I know I shall do something desperate;” and he looked as if
he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark
in his eyes.

Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she
too, was getting excited with all this, “Don’t swear, Teddy! He isn’t
old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I’ve got,
next to you. Pray, don’t fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I
know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven’t the least
idea of loving him or anybody else.”

“But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?”

“You’ll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
trouble.”

“I can’t love anyone else, and I’ll never forget you, Jo, Never!
Never!” with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

“What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more
unmanagable than she expected. “You haven’t heard what I wanted to
tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make
you happy,” she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which
proved that she knew nothing about love.

Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on
the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile,
and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was
not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo’s part, for how
could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes
full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or
two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his
head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed
to grow for her sake–how touching that was, to be sure! “I agree with
Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick
tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we
were so foolish as to…” Jo paused a little over the last word, but
Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.

“Marry–no we shouldn’t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect
saint, for you could make me anything you like.”

“No, I can’t. I’ve tried and failed, and I won’t risk our happiness by
such a serious experiment. We don’t agree and we never shall, so we’ll
be good friends all our lives, but we won’t go and do anything rash.”

“Yes, we will if we get the chance,” muttered Laurie rebelliously.

“Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,” implored
Jo, almost at her wit’s end.

“I won’t be reasonable. I don’t want to take what you call ‘a sensible
view’. It won’t help me, and it only makes it harder. I don’t believe
you’ve got any heart.”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and thinking it a good omen,
Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he
said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously
wheedlesome before, “Don’t disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it.
Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can’t get
on without you. Say you will, and let’s be happy. Do, do!”

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength
of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided
that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to
do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

“I can’t say ‘yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at all. You’ll see that
I’m right, by-and-by, and thank me for it…” she began solemnly.

“I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning
with indignation at the very idea.

“Yes, you will!” persisted Jo. “You’ll get over this after a while,
and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a
fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn’t. I’m homely and awkward
and odd and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel–we
can’t help it even now, you see–and I shouldn’t like elegant society
and you would, and you’d hate my scribbling, and I couldn’t get on
without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn’t done it, and
everything would be horrid!”

“Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to
this prophetic burst.

“Nothing more, except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry. I’m
happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it
up for any mortal man.”

“I know better!” broke in Laurie. “You think so now, but there’ll come
a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll love him
tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it’s your
way, and I shall have to stand by and see it,” and the despairing lover
cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed
comical, if his face had not been so tragic.

“Yes, I will live and die for him, if 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 gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he
did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,
saying in a desperate sort of tone, “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”

“Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for his face frightened her.

“To the devil!” was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo’s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank
toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a
young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort
who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a
melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and
coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time
up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip
the trouble which he carried in his heart.

“That will do him good, and he’ll come home in such a tender, penitent
state of mind, that I shan’t dare to see him,” she said, adding, as she
went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,
and buried it under the leaves. “Now I must go and prepare Mr.
Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he’d love Beth,
perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her.
Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think
it’s dreadful.”

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went
straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then
broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind
old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach.
He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving
Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better
than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and
resolved to carry his boy out of harm’s way, for Young Impetuosity’s
parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather
met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very
successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the
twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the
old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to
listen to praises of the last year’s success, which to him now seemed
like love’s labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to
his piano and began to play. The 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 now, perhaps?”

“I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my seeing
her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted Laurie
in a defiant tone.

“Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but the
girl can’t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away
for a time. Where will you go?”

“Anywhere. I don’t care what becomes of me,” and Laurie got up with a
reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather’s ear.

“Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s sake. Why
not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?”

“I can’t.”

“But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
through college.”

“Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast through the
room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.

“I don’t ask you to go alone. There’s someone ready and glad to go
with you, anywhere in the world.”

“Who, Sir?” stopping to listen.

“Myself.”

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily, “I’m a selfish brute, but–you know–Grandfather–”

“Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before,
once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,
just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be
carried out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,
as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before
him.

“Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
interest in face or voice.

“There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you
should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here
will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do
almost everything, I’m merely holding on until you take my place, and
can be off at any time.”

“But you hate traveling, Sir. I can’t ask it of you at your age,”
began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to
go alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to
prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him
that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So,
stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would
leave behind him, he said stoutly, “Bless your soul, I’m not
superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my
old bones won’t suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as
sitting in a chair.”

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,
or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, “I
don’t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you’d feel
happier than if I was left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with
you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in
my own way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit
them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you
will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your
heart’s content.”

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the
world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the
old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken
heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly
appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a
spiritless tone, “Just as you like, Sir. It doesn’t matter where I go
or what I do.”

“It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but
I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.”

“Anything you like, Sir.”

“Good,” thought the old gentleman. “You don’t care now, but there’ll
come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I’m
much mistaken.”

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was
hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,
they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore
himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody,
irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress
and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided
Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a
tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of
his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to
attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a
relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very
uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the ‘poor, dear fellow was
going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy’. Of course, he
smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad
superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was
unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This
gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did
for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, 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
eloquent and pathetic.

“Oh, Jo, can’t you?”

“Teddy, dear, I wish I could!”

That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself
up, said, “It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another
word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the
curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as
if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a
look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

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 littler thinner than in
the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one
appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo
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 a mountain trip,
Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from
home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and
as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took
Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open
air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale
cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and
went, quite unconscious of the interest they 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 shadows
grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home,
believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She
wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and
what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when
she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the winds
blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.

One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still,
and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying
to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth’s cheeks. But she
could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin,
and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells
they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever
that Beth was slowly drifting away 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 anyone. But
when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo.”

“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t tell me, didn’t let me comfort and help you?
How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?”

Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
goodbye to health, love, and 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 you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn’t,” cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
and added softly, “Then you didn’t, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while.”

“Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly. He is so good to me,
how can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my
brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime.”

“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”

“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and
feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide,
Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”

“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young, Beth. I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight against
it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it
can’t be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,”
cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously
submissive than Beth’s.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows
itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She
did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
from which our Father never means us to b