“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 pretty things, and who was very charming, for she

showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with

her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put

it as a favor, but I’m sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she

does it out of kindness to me. I’m as proud as Lucifer, but such favors

from such people don’t burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor

that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees,

with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie

feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in

cages built of chairs.

“We are playing nargerie,” explained Kitty.

“Dis is mine effalunt!” added Tina, holding on by the Professor’s hair.

“Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when

Franz and Emil come, doesn’t she, Mr. Bhaer?” said Minnie.

The ‘effalunt’ sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and

said soberly to me, “I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a

noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly.”

I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much

as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played

tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they

all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming

fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little

‘koblods’, who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were

as simple and natural as Germans, don’t you?

I’m so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of

economy didn’t stop me, for though I’ve used thin paper and written

fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray

forward Amy’s as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound

very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy

studying so hard that he can’t find time to write to his friends? Take

good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and

give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.

P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I

am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to

write about. Bless you!

DECEMBER

My Precious Betsey,

As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it

may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though

quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what

Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral

agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend

as I could wish. They are not so interesting 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 mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any

tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the

other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the

manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and

traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of

himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three

of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered

with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.

“Such a man!” laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in

the rag 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 goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him

roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to

give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a

sad pass sometimes.”

“Let me mend them,” said I. “I don’t mind it, and he needn’t know. I’d

like to, he’s so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending

books.”

So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the

socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing

was said, and I hoped he wouldn’t find it out, but one day last week he

caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested

and amused me so much that I took a fancy to 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 this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I

say, haf you a wish for German?”

“Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,” I blundered out,

as red as a peony.

“Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At

efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you,

Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.” And he pointed to my work ‘Yes,’

they say to one another, these so kind ladies, ‘he is a stupid old

fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock

heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new

when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.’ “Ah! But I

haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.

Come, a little lesson then and now, or—no more good fairy works for me

and mine.”

Of course I couldn’t say anything after that, and as it really is a

splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four

lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was

very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and

then he’d look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it

was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and

when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw

the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself

disgraced and deserted forever, but didn’t blame him a particle, and

was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake

myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I’d covered

myself in glory.

“Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little

_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the

corner for making us trouble.”

He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson’s fairy tales so

invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my

lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I

forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it)

with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to

inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished

reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and

cried out in his hearty way, “Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I

do him in German, gif me your ear.” And away he went, rumbling out the

words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well

as hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which is

droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn’t

understand half he read, for I couldn’t help it, he was so earnest, I

so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for

this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets

tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it

very much, and he doesn’t seem tired of it yet, which is very good of

him, isn’t it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare

not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.

I’m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking

and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I’m

not jealous, dear, do your best, only don’t make a saint of him. I’m

afraid I couldn’t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read

him bits of my letters. I haven’t time to write much, and that will do

just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

JANUARY

A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course

includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can’t tell you

how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn’t get it till

night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you

said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was

disappointed, for I’d had a ‘kind of feeling’ that you wouldn’t forget

me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea,

and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I

just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat

down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in

my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the

better for being made instead of bought. Beth’s new ‘ink bib’ was

capital, and Hannah’s box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I’ll

be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully

the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

Speaking of books reminds me that I’m getting rich in that line, for on

New Year’s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he

values much, and I’ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor

with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how

I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own

name in it, “from my friend Friedrich Bhaer”.

“You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between

these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and

he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will

help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen.”

I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about ‘my library’, as

if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in

Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me.

Now don’t laugh at his horrid name. It isn’t pronounced either Bear or

Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only

Germans can give it. I’m glad you both like what I tell you about him,

and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm

heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new

‘friend Friedrich Bhaer’.

Not having much money, or knowing what he’d like, I got several little

things, and put them about the room, where he would find them

unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his

table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of

green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his

blower, so that he needn’t burn up what Amy calls ‘mouchoirs’. I made

it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black

and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy

immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so

it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn’t forget a

servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French

laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.

They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year’s Eve. I didn’t

mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke

remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and

feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask

on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the

silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool,

most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress,

and burst out into a ‘nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on

the banks of the Nile’. I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it

was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell

another that he knew I’d been an actress, in fact, he thought he

remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that

joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little

fairy in his arms. To see them dance was ‘quite a landscape’, to use a

Teddyism.

I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in

my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many

failures, for I’m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take

more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory.

Bless you all! Ever your loving... Jo

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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 life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth

everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her

bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so

that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years

Jo’s most cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after

long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en

Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for

public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on

bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed

awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the

least lovely of the giant’s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the

‘up again and take another’ spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so

she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but

nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even

all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a

‘thrilling tale’, and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor

of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had

a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over

many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she

dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she

was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and

dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar

smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels

rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them

took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this

reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much

embarrassment...

“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to

see Mr. Dashwood.”

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,

and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced

with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling

that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her

manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,

blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the

occasion.

“A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an

experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this

suits.”

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,

and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,

and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were

numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure

sign of a novice.

“No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in

the _Blarneystone Banner_.”

“Oh, did she?” and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to

take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the

buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve more

of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present,

but I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.”

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her at

all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but

bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was

apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was

perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the

gentlemen that her little fiction of ‘my friend’ was considered a good

joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as

he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to

return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching

pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh

over the scene and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr.

Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.

Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his

manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the

first.

“We’ll take this (editors never say I), if you don’t object to a few

alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve marked will

make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its

pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender 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. Dashwoods’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had

forgotten her ‘friend’, and spoken as only an author could.

“People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t sell

nowadays.” Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

“You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

“Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language good, and so

on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

“What do you—that is, what compensation—” began Jo, not exactly knowing

how to express herself.

“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this

sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point

had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

“Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with a

satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five

seemed good pay.

“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better

than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and

emboldened by her success.

“Well, we’ll look at it. Can’t promise to take it. Tell her to make it

short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend

like to put on it?” in a careless tone.

“None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear and

has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

“Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you

call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a

natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

“I’ll call. Good morning, Sir.”

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful

remark, “Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.”

Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her

model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational

literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,

she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and

scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared

upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit

as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such

trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood

graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not

thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his

hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher

wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew

stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the

mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One

thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell

them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not

approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon

afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with

her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but

promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write

nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of

conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show

her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could

not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,

history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and

lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found

that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the

tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business

light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic

energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them

original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers

for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of

public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in

the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.

She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old

that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,

and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought

she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to

desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman’s character. She

was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence

affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and

unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her

nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which

comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of

other people’s passions and feelings set her to studying and

speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young

minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own

punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don’t know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read

character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,

brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every

perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who

interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one

of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and

lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a

writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and

studied him—a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he

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 everyone was his friend; no longer

young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face

looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his

sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last

decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any

sorrow, ‘it sat with its head under its wing’, and he turned only his

sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time

seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to

others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many

friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and

his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than

words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the

wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him

comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart

underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets

plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.

His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy

like other people’s.

“That’s it!” said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that

genuine good will toward one’s fellow men could beautify and dignify

even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own

socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine

respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the

Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,

and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much

honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came

to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss

Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it

all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to

know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor

language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much

beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most

unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which

Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman

felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many

favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with

her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several

celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had

worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for

genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to

recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and

women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid

admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on

‘spirit, fire, and dew’, to behold him devouring his supper with an

ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a

fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her

romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters

with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly

with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at

another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering

her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea

Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady

rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting

their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting

themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young

musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked

horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be

the most ordinary man of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,

that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined

her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the

philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an

intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles

beyond Jo’s comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel

were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,

and the only thing ‘evolved from her inner consciousness’ was a bad

headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the

world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,

according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,

that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and

intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or

metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,

half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being

turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a

holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him

looking at her with the 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, outtalked but not one

whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor

her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out

then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She

began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,

intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man

has defined it to be, ‘truth, reverence, and good will’, then her

friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his

respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the

wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out

of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her

lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there

and he had forgotten to take off.

“It’s evident he doesn’t look in his glass before coming down,” thought

Jo, with a smile, as he said “Goot efening,” and sat soberly down,

quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his

headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,

hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover

it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German

read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came

the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that

night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The

Professor didn’t know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask

with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

“Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face? Haf you no

respect for me, that you go on so bad?”

“How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?”

said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt

and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then

threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

“Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my

cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,

you too shall wear him.”

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer

caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great

disgust, “I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not

for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I

haf no patience with those who make this harm.”

Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a

lunatic, a corpse, a 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 think that good young

girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I

would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad

trash.”

“All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for

it, I don’t see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people

make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories,” said

Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits

followed her pin.

“There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to

sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would

not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in

the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a

little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing.”

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in

his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for

her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and

gone harmlessly up the chimney.

“I should like much to send all the rest after him,” muttered the

Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her

hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.

Then she thought consolingly to herself, “Mine are not like that, they

are only silly, never bad, so I won’t be worried,” and taking up her

book, she said, with a studious face, “Shall we go on, Sir? I’ll be

very good and proper now.”

“I shall hope so,” was all he said, but he meant more than she

imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the

words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully

reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer

sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see

how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have

on the Professor’s mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of

these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.

“They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is

more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting myself

and other people, for the sake of money. I know it’s so, for I can’t

read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,

and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of

them?”

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her

stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

“Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I’d better

burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves

up with my gunpowder,” she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura

whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three month’s work except a heap

of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the

floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

“I think I haven’t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my

time,” she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, “I almost

wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If I didn’t care

about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I

should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing sometimes, that Mother

and Father hadn’t been so particular about such things.”

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that ‘Father and Mother were

particular’, and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians

to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to

impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build

character upon in womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not

pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as

is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.

Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale

which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so

intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning,

for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new

style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous

costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several

markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with

Mr. Dashwood that morals didn’t sell.

Then she tried a child’s story, which she could easily have disposed of

if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The

only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try

juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to

convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked

to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty

boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did

not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did

go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to

escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons

on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo

corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...

“I don’t know anything. I’ll wait until I do before I try again, and

meantime, ‘sweep mud in the street’ if I can’t do better, that’s

honest, at least.” Which decision proved that her second tumble down

the beanstalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had

been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked

serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did

it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would

accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was

satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she

had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the

second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her

evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and

studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on

occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was

happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons

besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her

own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.

Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children

were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer’s hair stuck straight up all over his

head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

“Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,” he said,

when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,

while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when

his turn came, she said warmly, “Now, Sir, you won’t forget to come and

see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I’ll never forgive you if

you do, for I want them all to know my friend.”

“Do you? Shall I come?” he asked, looking down at her with an eager

expression which she did not see.

“Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you’d enjoy

commencement as something new.”

“That is your best friend, of whom you speak?” he said in an altered

tone.

“Yes, my boy Teddy. I’m very proud of him and should like you to see

him.”

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure

in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.

Bhaer’s face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more

than a ‘best friend’, and simply because she particularly wished not to

look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,

and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been

for Tina on her knee. She didn’t know what would have become of her.

Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her

face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and

his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual

expression, as he said cordially...

“I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much

success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!” And with that, he

shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the

tired look on his face and the ‘heimweh’, or homesickness, lying heavy

at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little

child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head

on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search

of something that he could not find.

“It is not for me, I must not hope it now,” he said to himself, with a

sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the

longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled

heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened

his Plato.

He did his best and did it manfully, but I don’t think he found that a

pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very

satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and

thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory

of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her

company, and best of all, the happy thought, “Well, the winter’s gone,

and I’ve written no books, earned no fortune, but I’ve made a friend

worth having and I’ll try to keep him all my life.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

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 be weaned, but through which He

draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for

life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, “I try to be

willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this

great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, “You’ll tell them this

when we go home?”

“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo, for now it seemed

to her that Beth changed every day.

“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often

blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for

me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has

John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and

Mother, won’t you Jo?”

“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet. I’m going to believe that it

is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true.” said Jo, trying to

speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, “I don’t

know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone but you,

because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I

have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not

like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I’d do when I

grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t

seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about

at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and

the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems

as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”

Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the

sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew

by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it

till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little

gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach ‘peeping’ softly to

itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth,

and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,

dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt

comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and

remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than

the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,

confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and

Mother said they reminded her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures,

always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song

of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and

the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the

turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she 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 home, and when Jo went down, she found that she

would be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret. Her father

stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came

in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went

to comfort her without a word.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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 lie orange orchards and the hills. Many

nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and

on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.

Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly

Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or

saunter here, chatting over the news, and 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 buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy

him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the

young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at

some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade

and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and

listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach

toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as

one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came

rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in

blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his

hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.

“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy,

dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great

scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps,

lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these

‘mad English’.

“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,

and here I am.”

“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”

“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you

were out.”

“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we can

talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.

Flo’s saving up for tonight.”

“What happens then, a ball?”

“A Christmas party at 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 bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.

The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever

been there?”

“Often, years ago, but I don’t mind having a look at it.”

“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your

grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.”

“Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has

settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse

him, so I go and come, and we 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 someone is glad to see

me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he

added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the

Place Napoleon in the old city.

“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills are

delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my

delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It’s

going to the Church of St. John.”

While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their

canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some

brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt

a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could

not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside

her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but

now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired

and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than

a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn’t

understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her

head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the

arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.

“Que pensez-vous?” she said, airing her French, which had improved in

quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.

“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is

charming,” replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an

admiring look.

She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy

her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he

promenaded round her on festival occasions, and 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 still held its own, and her native frankness

was unspoiled by foreign polish.

Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks,

but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a

pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine,

which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her

cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure

in the pleasant scene.

As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved

her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing

here and there, “Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the

fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa

Franca, Schubert’s Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far

out to sea which they say 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 debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on

the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain

Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

“Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you

didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay’,” said Laurie, handing her

a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily

passed it in Cardiglia’s window.

“How kind you are!” she exclaimed gratefully. “If I’d known you were

coming I’d have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty

as this, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you. It isn’t what it should be, but you have improved it,” he

added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

“Please don’t.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“Not from you, it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness

better.”

“I’m glad of it,” he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her

gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to

do when they went to parties together at home.

The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was

such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans

had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no

prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their

Christmas ball.

A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk

with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother in black velvet with

a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted

himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, ‘a fascinating dear’, and a

German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely

about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild’s private

secretary, a 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

traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas

of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they

danced with their daughters.

Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she ‘took the

stage’ that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well,

she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a

ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when

young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to

rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis

girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim

papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her

friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it

permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who

her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the

band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap

the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know

it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than

described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, “Do you care to

dance?”

“One usually does at a ball.”

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as

fast as possible.

“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”

“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances 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,

Devinely 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 tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned

her to the ‘nice little boy’, and went to do his duty to Flo, without

securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of

forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself

till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She

showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled

instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka

redowa. But his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and when she

galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with

an actual expression of relief.

That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long

while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between

the dances for a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good

effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed

unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie’s eyes followed her with

pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit

and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very

naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before

the evening was half over, had decided that ‘little Amy was going to

make a very charming woman’.

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took

possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine,

hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and

banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who

couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark

with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.

The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a

dashing French-woman 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 shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps

actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the

drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French

Pickwick without glasses.

Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more

graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time

to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as

indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished

her, with assurances that he was ‘desolated to leave so early’, she was

ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his

punishment.

It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections

find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young

blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the

enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up

look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring

her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “Ah, I

thought that would do him good!”

“You look like Balzac’s ‘_Femme Peinte Par Elle-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 bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd

sort of pleasure in having ‘little Amy’ order him about, for she had

lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him,

as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any

signs of subjection.

“Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked with a quizzical

look.

“As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would you kindly

explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but

wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

“Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession,

the—the—illusion—you know”, laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping

himself out of his quandary with the new word.

Amy was gratified, but of course didn’t show it, and demurely answered,

“Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self. I study as well as

play, and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her dress—“why,

tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making

the most of my poor little things.”

Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good

taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both

admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of

opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.

Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, 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 THIRTY-EIGHT

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 everyone

knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy

their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually

abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion

almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet.

Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as

soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim,

as did a very pretty woman the other day, “I’m as handsome as ever, but

no one takes any notice of me because I’m married.”

Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience

this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little

world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired

and beloved than ever.

As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very

strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter

exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded

over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the

tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the

kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the

wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored

his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time,

supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.

But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked

worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the

house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life ‘aisy’, kept

him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered

by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at

night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a “Hush! They

are just asleep after worrying all day.” If he proposed a little

amusement at home, “No, it would disturb the babies.” If he hinted at a

lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a

decided—“Leave my children for pleasure, never!” His sleep was broken

by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to

and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the

frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped,

if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his

paper of an evening, Demi’s colic got into the shipping list and

Daisy’s fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only

interested in domestic news.

The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of

his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual ‘hushing’ made

him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred

precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and

when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles

do—tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone

to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over

for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and

his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott

was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she

performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright

and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay

gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.

John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so

lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and

enjoyed his neighbor’s society.

Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a

relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in

the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But

by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep

at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John,

and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite

in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the

fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because

he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely

forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was

nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable

frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when

domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of

cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the

teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.

“Yes,” she would say, looking in the glass, “I’m getting old and ugly.

John doesn’t find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded

wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances.

Well, the babies love me, they don’t care if I am thin and pale and

haven’t time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John

will see what I’ve gladly sacrificed for them, won’t he, my precious?”