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 conversation was 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, out-talked, but not one
whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
She did neither; but she remembered this 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 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
head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of Wallenstein."
[Illustration: He doesn't prink at his glass before coming]
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 an
air of 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 like to 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 whiskey, 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 sugar-plum, 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
re-read every one of her stories. Being a little short-sighted, 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 got 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 than 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.
[Illustration: Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove]
"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 months' 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 father and
mother 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 till 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
bean-stalk 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
beside 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. Every one 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 good-by over night; 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 towzled
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 and 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."
[Illustration: He put the sisters into the carriage]
XXXV.
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
to-morrow; 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 jews-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 little feelings. A call
at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn,
still further fortified her for the _tête-à-tête_, 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 jews-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 far-away 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 impetuosity, 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 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."
"Yes, 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 see 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 that 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.
[Illustration: He laid his head down on the mossy post]
"O Teddy, I'm so 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 some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this
trouble."
"I _can't_ love any one 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
unmanageable 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.