all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered it
grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with
himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of ours are
curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in
spite of us. Laurie's heart _wouldn't_ ache; the wound persisted in
healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying to
forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this
turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of
disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous
blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but
they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow
that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he
was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly
subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and
resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a
brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.
As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was
before him:--
"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he took
the other, and was happy."
Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,--
"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if
that fails, why, then--"
Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the
least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let
him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing,
but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It
came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never
wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she begged him to be happy
with somebody else, but always to keep a little corner of his heart for
his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy
that Beth was worse; she was coming home in the spring, and there was no
need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough,
please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel
lonely, homesick, or anxious.
"So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home for
her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.
But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling
about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and business
documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and in another
compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her
blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away
inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered
up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small
drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his
finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the
drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if
there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in
writing letters to charming young ladies.
[Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger]
The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
_was_ homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and
fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring. Laurie
sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,
hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to
Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy would not ask him, for
just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her
rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of "our boy."
Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed her,
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature; she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully, and was
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters
were very irregular, and were not half so satisfactory as his when they
did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the
poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being
stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him;
it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have
such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like other girls,
so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him like a
brother.
If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured
now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested in
everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him
two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and
captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are
complimented by having their letters carried about in their sisters'
pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when
long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of
these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale
and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went
out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she
came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours,
with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched
any fancy that occurred to her,--a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a
young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a
curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the
arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the
last fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory.
Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
said to himself, with a venerable air,--
"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been
through it all, and I can sympathize."
With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's letter
luxuriously.
While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home; but
the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the
next found her, the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met
her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they
had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian
lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree
that she should not shorten her visit, for, since it was too late to say
good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow.
But her heart was very heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day
looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort
her.
He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he
read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow-pedestrians,
and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow,
hope and suspense.
He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living _en
pension_. The _garçon_ was in despair that the whole family had gone to
take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond mademoiselle might be in
the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting
down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait
even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech, departed to
find mademoiselle himself.
A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low
wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console
herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day,
leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not
hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway
that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute,
looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
before,--the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely
suggested love and sorrow,--the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face;
even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for
he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had
any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at
rest the minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she
ran to him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing,--
"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"
[Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come]
I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy. He did
not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As
he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the
recollection of her impulsive greeting.
"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak
quite naturally.
"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel, and--" He could
not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of a sudden, and
did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his
shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare; so took
her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than
words.
"You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is
well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the going home,
much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes
me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right
back, need you?"
"Not if you want me, dear."
"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of the
family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."
Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full,
that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what
she wanted,--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation
she needed.
"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick! I'm
going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk
about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in
the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on
her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon
his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm to lean
upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk
delightfully for her alone.
The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
gave such a charm to time and place; and when an unromantic dinner-bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
all,--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I
never thought of such a thing!"
With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay, and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with
more than her usual success.
At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer
views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills; the fresh
winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists;
the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender
hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of
the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them,
saying, "Little children, love one another."
In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and,
as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself
for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost
the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of
the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful
when the pain was over. His second wooing he resolved should be as calm
and simple as possible; there was no need of having a scene, hardly any
need of telling Amy that he loved her; she knew it without words, and
had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that
no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even
Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be
wary and slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass,
enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word
that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.
He had rather imagined that the _dénouement_ would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon
the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.
They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his "Héloise."
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars,
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the
sake of saying something,--
"You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me good;
for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."
"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third
of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed
as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands,
and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly
through the water.
[Illustration: How well we pull together]
"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence
just then.
"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?" very tenderly.
"Yes, Laurie," very low.
Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
_tableau_ of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
in the lake.
XLII.
ALL ALONE.
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and
mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home
for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful,
happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which
had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her
duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust
that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life
get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all
sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than
Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble,
and hard work.
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never
seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life
like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if
somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first
efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind
which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.
But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth,
come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very
humbly,--
"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for
I'm all wrong."
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask it.
[Illustration: Jo and her father]
Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only
as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve
each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of
one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to
see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as
they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of
her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old
brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the
hand,--
"You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb
ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will
bless you for't, see ef He don't."
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom
out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she
constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery.