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 it 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 you 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! Every one 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 bare 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 any 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 tragical.
"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 fire to 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 many a 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 sha'n'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
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 Pathétique," 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 just 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 some one 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 till you take my place, and can be off
at any time."
"But you hate travelling, 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 travelling 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 gentlemen 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 tragical
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 every one 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
gayety 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 both
eloquent and pathetic.
"O Jo, can't you?"
[Illustration: O 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.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
XXXVI.
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 little 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 the 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 any one 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 shadow 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.
[Illustration: With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew
healthfully over her]
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
gathering. 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 any one. 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."
"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How
could you shut me out, and 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
good-by 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 that 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, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor
little heart full of love-lornity 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 never could 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 to 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 any one 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,
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
turtle-dove, 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."