shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty
letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and
describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised.
It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give
you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.
"Adieu; I embrace you tenderly. VOTRE AMIE."
"MY DEAR MAMMA,-- "HEIDELBERG.
"Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell
you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you
will see.
"The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed
it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read
about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At
Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with
whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was
a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked
by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and
hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the
students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing
I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress
opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of
stone.
"When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them
scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and
go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next
morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his
vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and
said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him,
for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to
look like it.
"The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where
Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to
look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she
hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would
be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house,
Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very
lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the
story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or
pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I
ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and
it mortifies me.
"Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is
just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite
fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling
friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to
feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily
adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't
flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and
have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I
don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for
them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother
will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary
little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me,
I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him,
and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young,
clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the
Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should
be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous
people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have
the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city
house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses,
but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as
English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've
seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and
pictures of the country place, with its park, great house,
lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should
ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up
so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I
hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I
can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't,
Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round.
I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of
that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well,
and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very
fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning
the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible
to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little
things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side
of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we
are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to
me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us,
and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking
baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as
fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew
off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but
is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might
guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
"Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at
least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going
to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking
about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the
beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English
wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine;
so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there
trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with
scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got
into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling
through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band
below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I
had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was
ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool,
and only a little excited.
[Illustration: Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall]
"By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying
through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I
forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said
he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was
very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only
had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and
disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he
said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not
mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?'
"I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied,
and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes,
for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know
he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted,
that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort
yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a
foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then,
if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he
says 'Will you, please?'
"Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know
what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your
'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as
much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could
see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me.
"Ever your AMY."
XXXII.
TENDER TROUBLES.
"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."
"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."
"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."
"What makes you think so, mother?"
"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."
"Have you asked her about it?"
"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or
looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."
Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,--
"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have
hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to
explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and
treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."
"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother,
with a sigh and a smile.
"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."
"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon;
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."
"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one
scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I
feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the
family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if
anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."
"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let
her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."
"Happy woman! I've got heaps."
"My dear, what are they?"
"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not
very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod
which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at
least.
While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and,
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue
to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the
rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she
and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on
her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand,
in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal
landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic
blackbird, and a voice called out,--
[Illustration: She leaned her head upon her hands]
"All serene! Coming in to-night."
Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,--
"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."
"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced
apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate,
apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo
began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than
once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her
own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring
something about needing more paper.
"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I
wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He
must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one
that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for
a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her
wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite,
"No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability
than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in
that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have
it."
Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had
prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than
ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and
scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the
various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender
passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the
immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated
"philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile
ready at the least sign of impending danger.
When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month;
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair,
and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many
shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were
less manageable.
Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on
the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never
disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she
listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his
ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as
Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that
she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he
dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little
absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity
that was really almost tender.
"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each
other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way."
As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?
and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat
down to settle that point.
Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode
on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired
heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women.
They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always
been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of
defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.
Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days,
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking
the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the
sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might
approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man,
woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to
barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before
a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the
sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed,
with a sigh of satisfaction,--
"Now, _this_ is filling at the price."
[Illustration: Now, this is filling at the price]
"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,
there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.
"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the
week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."
"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."
"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"
Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,--
"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"
"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."
"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued
Jo reprovingly.
"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me
send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have
a _went_."
"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."
"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."
"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else
is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play
Mentor.
"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."
"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others
to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."
"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of
herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on
at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure;
but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend
their ways, I fancy."
"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."
"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin,--
"'Out upon you, fie upon you,
Bold-faced jig!'"
It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a
most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt,
and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in
modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said,
dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and
not waste your time with the silly ones."
"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.
"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.
"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel
round his finger.
"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."
"I'd rather stay here, thank you."
"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.
"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.
"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.
He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young
gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.
[Illustration: Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee]
Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.
"Is it the old pain, my precious?"
"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.
"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."
"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.
"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"
Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went
involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other
she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't
tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll
be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."
Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to
speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"
"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.
"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
"Not now, not yet."