knows about such things.' I don't pretend to be wise, but I _am_
observing, and I see a great deal more than you'd imagine. I'm
interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies; and,
though I can't explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit. Love
Jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's
wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one
you want. There, I won't lecture any more, for I know you'll wake up and
be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."
Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on
his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had
been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee,
merely saying,--
"How do you like that?"
He looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it
was capitally done,--the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless
face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the
little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.
"How well you draw!" he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure at her
skill, adding, with a half-laugh,--
"Yes, that's me."
"As you are: this is as you were;" and Amy laid another sketch beside
the one he held.
It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it
which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a
sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked. Only a rough
sketch of Laurie taming a horse; hat and coat were off, and every line
of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude, was full
of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching
his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing
the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had
mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider's breezy hair and erect
attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of
strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy, that contrasted sharply with
the supine grace of the "_Dolce far niente_" sketch. Laurie said
nothing; but, as his eye went from one to the other, Amy saw him flush
up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little
lesson she had given him. That satisfied her; and, without waiting for
him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way,--
[Illustration: A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse]
"Don't you remember the day you played Rarey with Puck, and we all
looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and
I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the
other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."
"Much obliged. You've improved immensely since then, and I congratulate
you. May I venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon Paradise' that five
o'clock is the dinner-hour at your hotel?"
Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow,
and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures
should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air,
but it _was_ an affectation now, for the rousing had been more
efficacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his
manner, and said to herself,--
"Now I've offended him. Well, if it does him good, I'm glad; if it makes
him hate me, I'm sorry; but it's true, and I can't take back a word of
it."
They laughed and chatted all the way home; and little Baptiste, up
behind, thought that monsieur and mademoiselle were in charming spirits.
But both felt ill at ease; the friendly frankness was disturbed, the
sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent gayety, there
was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
"Shall we see you this evening, _mon frère_?" asked Amy as they parted
at her aunt's door.
"Unfortunately I have an engagement. _Au revoir, mademoiselle_," and
Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became
him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say quickly and
warmly,--
"No; be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I'd
rather have a hearty English hand-shake than all the sentimental
salutations in France."
"Good-by, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked,
Laurie left her, after a hand-shake almost painful in its heartiness.
Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made
her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end:--
"MY DEAR MENTOR,--
"Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself,
for 'Lazy Laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the best of
boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a
blissful honeymoon at Valrosa! I think Fred would be benefited
by a rouser. Tell him so, with my congratulations.
"Yours gratefully, TELEMACHUS."
"Good boy! I'm glad he's gone," said Amy, with an approving smile; the
next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding,
with an involuntary sigh,--
"Yes, I _am_ glad, but how I shall miss him!"
[Illustration: The Valley of the Shadow]
XL.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable,
and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of
trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward
making that last year a happy one.
The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
gathered everything that she most loved,--flowers, pictures, her piano,
the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father's best books
found their way there, mother's easy-chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest
sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage,
to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum,
that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with
the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah never wearied of
concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears
as she worked; and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful
letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands
that know no winter.
Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil
and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,
and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for
those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and
one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school-children
daily passing to and fro,--to drop a pair of mittens from her window for
a pair of purple hands, a needle-book for some small mother of many
dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pot-hooks,
scrap-books for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices,
till the reluctant climbers up the ladder of learning found their way
strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as
a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts
miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any
reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her
window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to
her, full of blots and gratitude.
The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look
round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her
sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and
sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from
the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as
applicable now as when written centuries ago; a little chapel, where a
paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying
to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation
possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who
listened; for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the
frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he
spoke or read.
It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as
preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the
needle was "so heavy," and put it down forever; talking wearied her,
faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil
spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble
flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching
hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced
to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the
bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A
sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with
death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the natural rebellion
over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of
her frail body, Beth's soul grew strong; and, though she said little,
those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim
called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore,
trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed
the river.
Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, "I feel stronger when
you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew
the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom
asked for anything, and "tried not to be a trouble." All day she haunted
the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then
than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours
to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed; lessons
in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn
them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly
forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and
the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
Often, when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little
book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw
her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the
transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with thoughts too
deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was
trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the
life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music
she loved so well.
Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest
hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter; for, with
eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest
sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life,--uneventful,
unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which "smell sweet, and
blossom in the dust," the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on
earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible
to all.
One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as
hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite
Pilgrim's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo's
hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of the lines made
her sure that tears had fallen on it.
"Poor Jo! she's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave; she shows
me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this,"
thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the
tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.
"MY BETH.
"Sitting patient in the shadow
Till the blessed light shall come,
A serene and saintly presence
Sanctifies our troubled home.
Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
Break like ripples on the strand
Of the deep and solemn river
Where her willing feet now stand.
"O my sister, passing from me,
Out of human care and strife,
Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
Which have beautified your life.
Dear, bequeath me that great patience
Which has power to sustain
A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
In its prison-house of pain.
"Give me, for I need it sorely,
Of that courage, wise and sweet,
Which has made the path of duty
Green beneath your willing feet.
Give me that unselfish nature,
That with charity divine
Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake--
Meek heart, forgive me mine!
"Thus our parting daily loseth
Something of its bitter pain,
And while learning this hard lesson,
My great loss becomes my gain.
For the touch of grief will render
My wild nature more serene,
Give to life new aspirations,
A new trust in the unseen.
"Henceforth, safe across the river,
I shall see forevermore
A beloved, household spirit
Waiting for me on the shore.
Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
Guardian angels shall become,
And the sister gone before me
By their hands shall lead me home."
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble, as the lines were, they brought
a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had
been that she had done so little; and this seemed to assure her that her
life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair
she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the
charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to
the bedside, hoping Beth slept.
"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it; I knew
you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with
wistful, humble earnestness.
"O Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow,
beside her sister's.
"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make
me, but I _have_ tried to do right; and now, when it's too late to
begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that some one loves
me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."
"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let
you go; but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you; that you'll be
more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."
"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall
be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take
my place, Jo, and be everything to father and mother when I'm gone. They
will turn to you, don't fail them; and if it's hard to work alone,
remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing
that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world; for love is
the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the
end so easy."
"I'll try, Beth;" and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of
other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the
immortality of love.
So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back in
time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung
to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and mother guided
her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom, except in books, do the dying utter memorable words, see
visions, or depart with beatified countenances; and those who have sped
many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and
simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the "tide went out easily;" and in
the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her
first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving
look, one little sigh.
With tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic
patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling, with reverent
joy, that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom
full of dread.
When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang
blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snow-drops blossomed freshly
at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction
over the placid face upon the pillow,--a face so full of painless peace
that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God
that Beth was well at last.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]
XLI.
LEARNING TO FORGET.
Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till
long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the
lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon
it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of
it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to
his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the
old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully,
and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman
would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back
after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the
longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the
words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you;" "Go and do
something splendid that will _make_ her love you."
Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
himself to confess that he _had_ been selfish and lazy; but then when a
man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries
till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were
quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a faithful
mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo
_wouldn't_ love him, but he might _make_ her respect and admire him by
doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had not spoilt his
life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite
unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted
affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was
ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on."
As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem which
should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore
the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody,
and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends,
and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music
too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem
was beyond him, just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in
working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying; for often in the
middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing
tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the
stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the
time being.
Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning;
but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned
traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in
the most unsentimental aspects,--beating mats with her head tied up in
a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing cold
water over his passion _à la_ Gummidge,--and an irresistible laugh
spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be
put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless
that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a
distracted composer.
When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,
was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his
mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and
blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he
took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well he might;
for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted
her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal
woman.
Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas
and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state
that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was
conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's
genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of
it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it wasn't
genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to
some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory
life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and
body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that every one who loved
music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas,
splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,
played a few of the best parts, sat staring up at the busts of
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again; then
suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last
fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,--
"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"
That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible
opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed it,
for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially
fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow
had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith
and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire
to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,
and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.
Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles." I dare say _you_ don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and
keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing
that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which
make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it _is_ a feminine delusion,
leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and
the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter
all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little lads, who still love
their mothers better than themselves, and are not ashamed to own it.