Little_Women8.txt

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it
all–the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I
never thought of such a thing!”

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.
The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of
aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to
wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look
benignly down upon them saying, “Little children, love one another.”

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he
had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for
the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the
same as Jo’s self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one
of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be
grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should
be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a
scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it
without words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about
so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody
would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been
crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so
Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance
the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and
sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and 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 Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for
the sake of saying something…

“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me
good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.”

“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t
trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the 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 FORTY-TWO

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 doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself,
when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable
state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the
inevitable.

But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth,
come back! Come back!” she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister’s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and 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 for it.

Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not
only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to
serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called ‘the church of
one member’, and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo–humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned
to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful
as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something
of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and
the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth’s orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand…

“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss that dear
lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and the
Lord will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.”

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should
blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always
‘perwisin’ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in
the topsy-turvy nursery.

“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will
fall off.”

“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by them,”
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg’s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo’s was nearly ready for
the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy’s
impatient shake, but a man’s hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she
would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately
she wasn’t thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she
dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn’t a heroine, she was only a
struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out
her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood
suggested. It’s highly virtuous to say we’ll be good, but we can’t do
it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo
had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if
she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She
had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,
and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to
devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to
them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to
increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a
restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and
desires, and cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.

“Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,” said her
mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

“I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things.”

“We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear. I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.”

“Don’t believe I can.” But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got
into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,
for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,
much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her
utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested.
Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the
appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as
well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success,
and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and
condemned all at once.

“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story
like that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered.

“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret. Humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no
thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.
You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow
as happy as we are in your success.”

“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine. I
owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her
father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like
dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that
Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon
set at rest, for 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 loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and
satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.

“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets and looked at one another.

“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.”

“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a 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 scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I’m sober and
sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.”

“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied
it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else.”

“Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?”

“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very
lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to
my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he
tried now.”

“No, Mother, it is better as it 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. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven
this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!”

“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” and Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,
she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing for
someone to ‘love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together’. Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended
stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners
name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended
now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own,
leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic
collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She
drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at
kind Mrs. Kirke’s. She had smiled at first, then she looked
thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in
the Professor’s hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of
her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new
meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.

“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come.”

“Oh, if he only would! So 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 everyone seems going away from me,
and I’m all alone.”

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,
as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its
inspirer? Who shall say?

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

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 tomorrow was her birthday, and she
was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and
how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and
nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good
deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.

“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen
for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence
a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I’m old and can’t
enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and don’t need it.
Well, I needn’t be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say,
old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but…” and
there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.

It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
five-and-twenty. But it’s not as bad as it looks, and one can get on
quite happily if one has something in one’s self to fall back upon. At
twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly
resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it,
but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by
remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which
they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don’t laugh at the
spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are
hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,
and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself,
make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight. Even the sad, sour
sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the
sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them
with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember
that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don’t last
forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and
that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and
admiration now.

Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter
how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,
and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect
the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and
petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out
of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches
the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old
feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little
attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The
bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all
the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part
mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a
tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who
has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for ‘the best nevvy
in the world’.

Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this
little homily), for suddenly Laurie’s ghost seemed to stand before her,
a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he
used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn’t like to show it. But,
like Jenny in the ballad…

“She could not think it he,”

and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully…

“Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!”

“Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?”

“Glad! My blessed boy, words can’t express my gladness. Where’s Amy?”

“Your mother has got her down at Meg’s. We stopped there by the way,
and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches.”

“Your what?” cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.

“Oh, the dickens! Now I’ve done it,” and he looked so guilty that Jo
was down on him like a flash.

“You’ve gone and got married!”

“Yes, please, but I never will again,” and he went down upon his knees,
with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
and triumph.

“Actually married?”

“Very much so, thank you.”

“Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?” and Jo fell into
her seat with a gasp.

“A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,”
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with
satisfaction.

“What can you expect, when you take one’s breath away, creeping in like
a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you
ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it.”

“Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to
barricade.”

Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted
the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, “The old pillow is
up garret, and we don’t need it now. So, come and 'fess, Teddy.”

“How good it sounds to hear you say ‘Teddy’! No one ever calls me that
but you,” and Laurie sat down with an air of great content.

“What does Amy call you?”

“My lord.”

“That’s like her. Well, you look it,” and Jo’s eye plainly betrayed
that she found her boy comelier than ever.

The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural
one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and
for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a
little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie
said, with a vain attempt at dignity…

“Don’t I look like a married man and the head of a family?”

“Not a bit, and you never will. You’ve grown bigger and bonnier, but
you are the same scapegrace as ever.”

“Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,” began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.

“How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
irresistibly funny that I can’t keep sober!” answered Jo, smiling all
over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then
settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.

“It’s no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all
coming up presently. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to be the one to tell
you the grand surprise, and have ‘first skim’ as we used to say when we
squabbled about the cream.”

“Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong
end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I’m pining to
know.”

“Well, I did it to please Amy,” began Laurie, with a twinkle that made
Jo exclaim…

“Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth,
if you can, sir.”

“Now she’s beginning to marm it. Isn’t it jolly to hear her?” said
Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite
agreed. “It’s all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned
to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly
chan