nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."
"Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this,
she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever;
fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came,
down she dropped.
Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling
human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature,
being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's
highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once,
and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together,
before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so
far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did
not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often
said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now
she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her
life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they
had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor
of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than
to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for
others?
Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.
"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo.
"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
"We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."
"Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.
An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into
that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for,
when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much
against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter
surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from
several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the
little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends
admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more
astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.
"I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story
like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought
of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had
the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we
are in your success."
"If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I
owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful
children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo
would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set
at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly,
and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the
letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the
other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to
think of, for no one had any objection to make.
"You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets, and looked at one another.
"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."
"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."
"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest
you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."
"I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and
sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now."
"So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it
might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else."
"Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"
"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely,
and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart;
so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."
"No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love
him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy
had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any
more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."
"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."
"Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is
so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented
with my family. I don't understand it."
"I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender
he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of
noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's
mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now
with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may,
and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all
my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets
us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world
could be, when two people love and live for one another!"
"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again.
By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true;
she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together."
Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little
wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each
filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo
glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the
edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of
old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over,
and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled
at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a
little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to
tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the
friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot
in her heart.
"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."
"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my
dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me,
and I'm all alone."
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as
if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
[Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried]
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?
[Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her]
XLIII.
SURPRISES.
Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the
fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of
dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little
red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender
thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired,
grave, and rather sad; for to-morrow was her birthday, and she was
thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how
little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing
to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that; there was a good deal to show,
and by and by she saw, and was grateful for it.
"An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for
a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a
morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I'm old, and can't
enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it.
Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner; and, I dare say,
old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it; but--" and
there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to
five-and-twenty; but it's not so bad as it looks, and one can get on
quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At
twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly
resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about it,
but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console themselves by
remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which
they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the
spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragical romances are
hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns,
and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make
the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters
should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part
of life, if for no other reason; and, looking at them with compassion,
not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may
miss the blossom time; that rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver
threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by and by,
kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.
Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter
how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that
which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble,
and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect
the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and
petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have helped you out
of, the "tips" they have given you from their small store, the stitches
the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet
have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions
that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls
are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them;
and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son,
should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and
maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest
corner of her lonely old heart for the "the best nevvy in the world."
Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this
little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before
her,--a substantial, lifelike ghost,--leaning over her, with the very
look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show
it. But, like Jenny in the ballad,--
"She could not think it he,"
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and
kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully,--
"O my Teddy! O my Teddy!"
"Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?"
"Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?"
"Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and
there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."
"Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an
unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
"Oh, the dickens! now I've done it;" and he looked so guilty that Jo was
down upon him like a flash.
"You've gone and got married!"
"Yes, please, but I never will again;" and he went down upon his knees,
with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth,
and triumph.
"Actually married?"
"Very much so, thank you."
"Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into
her seat, with a gasp.
"A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with
satisfaction.
"What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like
a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you
ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."
"Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to
barricade."
Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted
the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone,--
"The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come and
'fess, Teddy."
"How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that
but you;" and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content.
"What does Amy call you?"
"My lord."
"That's like her. Well, you look it;" and Jo's eyes plainly betrayed
that she found her boy comelier than ever.
The pillow was gone, but there _was_ a barricade, nevertheless,--a
natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it,
and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast
a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie
said, with a vain attempt at dignity,--
"Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?"
"Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you
are the same scapegrace as ever."
"Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began
Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
"How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so
irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all
over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then
settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
"It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all
coming up presently. I couldn't wait; I wanted to be the one to tell you
the grand surprise, and have 'first skim,' as we used to say when we
squabbled about the cream."
"Of course you did, and spoilt your story by beginning at the wrong end.
Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened; I'm pining to know."
"Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made
Jo exclaim,--
"Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if
you can, sir."
"Now she's beginning to marm it; isn't it jolly to hear her?" said
Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite
agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to
come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly
changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But
grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn't let
him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English
notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come
with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married,
and then we can do as we like.'"
"Of course you did; you always have things to suit you."
"Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily,--
"How did you ever get aunt to agree?"
"It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps
of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave,
but you all liked it, had consented to it by and by, and it was only
'taking Time by the fetlock,' as my wife says."
"Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"
interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with
delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so
tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
"A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't help
being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play
propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use
apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all
round; so we did it."
"When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and
curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
"Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris; a very quiet
wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear
little Beth."
Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the
little red pillow, which he remembered well.
"Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone,
when they had sat quite still a minute.
"We wanted to surprise you; we thought we were coming directly home, at
first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he
couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our
honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular
honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but
once in their lives. My faith! wasn't it love among the roses!"
Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it; for the
fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally assured her
that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her
hand; but, as if he guessed the thought that prompted the
half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly
gravity she had never seen in him before,--
"Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As
I told you in my letter, when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I
never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned
to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you change places in my
heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come
about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never
could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong
and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it
_was_ one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of
myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that
I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love both
alike; but I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything
seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and
I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with
the new; that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife
Amy, and love them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the
happy old times when we first knew one another?"
"I'll believe it, with all my heart; but, Teddy, we never can be boy and
girl again: the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect
it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is
over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this; I see the
change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I
shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be
what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we
will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives,
won't we, Laurie?"
He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his
face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish
passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them
both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home
to be a sad one,--
"I can't make it true that you children are really married, and going to
set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning
Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how
time does fly!"
"As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like
a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed,' as Peggotty said
of David; and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious
infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.
"You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in
feeling, Teddy. Women always are; and this last year has been such a
hard one that I feel forty."
"Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You
_are_ older; here's a line, and there's another; unless you smile, your
eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear
on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.
What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a
remorseful look.
But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone
which she tried to make quite cheerful,--