look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.
She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as, of course, he was
called, and it's my private belief that he _would_ have broken his word
if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in
a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman,
and sealed the culprit's fate.
"Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received;
and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her
head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her
little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no
difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck;
and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her
down.
[Illustration: Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows]
"You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis,
resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.
That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and
see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few
enemies; but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her,
seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop
down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of
wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and, taking
the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what
now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that
the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic figure before
them.
During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little
girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it
might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard
experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had been
governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her
before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten
in the sting of the thought,--
"I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!"
The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end at last, and
the word "Recess!" had never seemed so welcome to her before.
"You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt,
uncomfortable.
He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went,
without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her
things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to
herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the older
girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at
once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and comforted
her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the
insulted hand with glycerine and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved
kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this; Jo wrathfully
proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; and Hannah shook her
fist at the "villain," and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him
under her pestle.
No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the
sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in
the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo
appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk, and
delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property, and
departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as
if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.
"Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a
little every day, with Beth," said Mrs. March, that evening. "I don't
approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr.
Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls you associate with
are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I
send you anywhere else."
"That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old
school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed
Amy, with the air of a martyr.
"I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved
some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather
disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
"Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?"
cried Amy.
"I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her
mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder
method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite
time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and
virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the
finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness
will be overlooked long; even if it is, the consciousness of possessing
and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power
is modesty."
"So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I
knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she
didn't know it; never guessed what sweet little things she composed when
she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her."
"I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me, I'm so
stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
"You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could,"
answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his
merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face
in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.
[Illustration: You do know her]
Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who
could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So
Laurie did his best, and sung delightfully, being in a particularly
lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his
character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening,
said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,--
"Is Laurie an accomplished boy?"
"Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will
make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother.
"And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy.
"Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so
much."
"I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but not to
show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully.
"These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and
conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display
them," said Mrs. March.
"Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and
ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo; and the
lecture ended in a laugh.
[Illustration: Girls, where are you going?]
VIII.
JO MEETS APOLLYON.
"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an
air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply.
Now if there _is_ anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are
young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is
still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined
to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I
should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over her
piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am _so_ lonely."
"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke in
impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't
go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."
"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were
whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you
stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"
"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."
Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her
pocket.
"I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven
Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I _shall_ go, for mother
said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."
"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly.
"Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well
enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go
with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."
"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let
me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for
some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as
pathetic as she could.
"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle
her up well," began Meg.
"If _she_ goes _I_ sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it
will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I
should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo
crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child,
when she wanted to enjoy herself.
Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,
in her most aggravating way, "I _shall_ go; Meg says I may; and if I pay
for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."
"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit
alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our
pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper, when
you weren't asked. You sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where
you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger
in her hurry.
Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot
her grown-up ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was
setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening tone,
"You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't."
"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.
They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake"
were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of
the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and
princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she
amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
"sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course
of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent
when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and
semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed
afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had
hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting
her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly
confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her
sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury,
because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be
good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her;
and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.
When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an
injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or
asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered
resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing
description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's
first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had
soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the
floor. Everything was in its place, however; and after a hasty glance
into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.
There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which produced
a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the
afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and demanding
breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?"
Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the
fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her in
a minute.
"Amy, you've got it?"
"No, I haven't."
"You know where it is, then?"
"No, I don't."
"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.
"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."
"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.
"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again,"
cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.
"Why not?"
"I burnt it up."
[Illustration: I burnt it up]
"What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo,
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy
nervously.
"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday,
and I have, so--"
Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and
anger,--
"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live."
Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside
herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of
the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.
The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard
the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her
family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen
little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her
whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to
print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the
old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of
several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her
pet; Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would
love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted
more than any of them.
When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,--
"Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."
"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that
moment, she ignored Amy entirely.
No one spoke of the great trouble,--not even Mrs. March,--for all had
learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted;
and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own
generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the breach. It was
not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual, while their mother
read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and
the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They felt this most when
singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone,
and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung alone. But, in spite of their
efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to
chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.
As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,--
"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each other,
help each other, and begin again to-morrow."
Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief
and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so
deeply injured that she really _couldn't_ quite forgive yet. So she
winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was
listening,--
"It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."
With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential
gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and
began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than
ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was
particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and
nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning; she
dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack
of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth _would_ look grieved and wistful when
she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always
talking about being good, and yet wouldn't try, when other people set
them a virtuous example.
"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself,
and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation,--
"There! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we
shall have. But it's no use to ask such a cross-patch to take me."
"Don't say that; you _were_ very naughty, and it _is_ hard to forgive
the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now,
and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go
after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie,
then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and
I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart."
"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to
get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.
It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached
them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he
was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.
"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we
begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young
Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her
fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and
went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of
satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till
it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,
he shouted back,--
"Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."
Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a
word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear,--
"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."
Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the
river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart;
then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,
just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden
crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart
stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone;
she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in
them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with
a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water.
Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out,--
"Bring a rail; quick, quick!"
How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked
as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,
and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a
rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more
frightened than hurt.
[Illustration: Held Amy up by his arms and hockey]
"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping
his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed
so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot
fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about, looking
pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands
cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was
comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,
she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.
"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
under the treacherous ice.
"Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think,
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied
her mother cheerfully.
"Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she _should_ die, it
would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it
breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
cried poor Jo, in despair.
"Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
cried harder than ever.
"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any
one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I _shall_ do something dreadful some day,
and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do
help me!"
"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day,
and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like
it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours,
and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your
temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it."
"Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.
"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in
controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have
learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though
it may take me another forty years to do so."
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better
lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt
comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it;
though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a
girl of fifteen.
"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go
out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry
you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever
before.
"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and
when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away
a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked,"
answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and
fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.
"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me--for the
sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the
worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."
"My good mother used to help me--"
"As you do us--" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.