once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd
gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your
living by rowing on the lake."
"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a
richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I
have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to
think it is their only salvation; but you had better lessons, and,
though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the
daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told mamma so yesterday,
and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a
million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral
remarks, Mrs. Laurence;" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent
look, though fixed upon his face.
"Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I
don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my
handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is
_such_ a comfort to me;" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature
with artistic satisfaction.
Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that
suited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his
wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly,--
"May I ask you a question, dear?"
"Of course you may."
"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?"
"Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the
dimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the
happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a
heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"
Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous fear
vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and
confidence.
"I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't
we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in
Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they
began to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as they
were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
[Illustration: They began to pace up and down]
"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him, just
as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful
thing."
"Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary
husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We
won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in
spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she
believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in
that way."
"How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was
always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely; and, thanks
to you, the dream has come true."
"Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty
that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of,
but poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people
don't dare to offer charity; yet there are a thousand ways of helping
them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not
offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a
blarneying beggar; I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is
harder."
"Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the
domestic admiration society.
"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was
going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many
talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real
hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some
of them, working like heroes, poor and friendless, but so full of
courage, patience, and ambition, that I was ashamed of myself, and
longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a
satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be
allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of
fuel to keep the pot boiling; if they haven't, it's a pleasure to
comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it
out."
"Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in
silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a
princess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old story.
Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth,
health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help
at the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and whenever I
see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand
and help them, as I was helped."
"And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving,
with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for
the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich
people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their
money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave
legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and
enjoy making one's fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good
time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving
other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about
emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"
"With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping, as you
ride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with the beggar."
"It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"
So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again,
feeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because they hoped
to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more
uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough
ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely
knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest
than they.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
XLV.
DAISY AND DEMI.
I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March
family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious
and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of
discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their
rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.
If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoilt by
adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most
remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they
walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two
years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety
which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a "needler," and
actually made a bag with four stitches in it; she likewise set up
housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking-stove
with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi
learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of
teaching the alphabet by forming the letters with his arms and legs,
thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a
mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother,
for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a
chaotic condition, with his "sewin-sheen,"--a mysterious structure of
string, chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and
wound;" also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he
vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine
devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the
young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter,
and me's trying to pull her up."
Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well
together, and seldom quarrelled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi
tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other
aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored her
brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny
little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and
nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be
kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and
produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small
virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few
small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair
weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window
in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no matter whether it
rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Every one was a friend,
and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most
inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful
worshippers.
[Illustration: Me loves evvybody]
"Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in
one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish
the whole world.
As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be blest
by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had
helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared
a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her "Beth,"
and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if
trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could
see.
Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know
everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get
satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"
He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his
grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which
the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised
satisfaction of the womenfolk.
[Illustration: What makes my legs go, dranpa?]
"What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying
those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting
after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
"It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow
head respectfully.
"What is a little mine?"
"It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the
wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you."
"Open me; I want to see it go wound."
"I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you
up, and you go till He stops you."
"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the
new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?"
"Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see."
Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the
watch, and then gravely remarked,--
"I dess Dod does it when I's asleep."
A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that
his anxious grandmother said,--
"My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby?
He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most
unanswerable questions."
"If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive
true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping
him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are,
and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him.
Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?"
If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot
tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after
standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he
answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old
gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in
metaphysics.
There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given
convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding
philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to
prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he
would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with
which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their
parents' souls.
Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was
ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the
tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show
themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
"No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young
person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity
on plum-pudding day.
"Me likes to be sick."
"I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes."
He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by
and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a
shrewd bargain.
"Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says
Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is
safely bouncing in the pot.
"Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered
head.
"Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent,
preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times
over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or
limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply,--
"Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."
Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and _confidante_ of both children, and the
trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a
name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but
Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which
compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo
neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their
little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost
her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration,
soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with "the bear-man" better than
she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he
hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in
his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case
and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes;
but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the
"bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small
affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her
throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth.
Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the
young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this
counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not
deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
likewise effective,--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law;
he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked
particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his
manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day,
but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked
for Mr. March, so I suppose _he_ was the attraction. The excellent papa
labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions
with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing
grandson suddenly enlightened him.
Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study,
astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay
Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him,
likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own
short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed
that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his
sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face,--
"Father, father, here's the Professor!"
Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor
said, with undisturbed dignity,--
"Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing
our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name."
"I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took
the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly
shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!"
[Illustration: Dranpa, it's a We]
"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and
her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing
his satisfaction that school was over.
"What have you been at to-day, bübchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the
gymnast.
"Me went to see little Mary."
"And what did you there?"
"I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness.
"Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?"
asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon
his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.
"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. _Don't_ little
boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of
bland satisfaction.
"You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying
the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.
"'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi,
putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she
alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
"Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet,
mannling;" and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her
wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw
the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired,--
"Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?"
Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie;" so he gave the
somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that
made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's retiring face,
and then sink into his chair, looking as if the "precocious chick" had
put an idea into _his_ head that was both sweet and sour.
Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour
afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a
tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice
of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled
his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades]
XLVI.
UNDER THE UMBRELLA.
While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets,
as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr.
Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy
roads and sodden fields.
"I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should
give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor on his way
out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters; for, though
there were two paths to Meg's, whichever one she took she was sure to
meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and
never seemed to see her till quite close, when he would look as if his
short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till
that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's, he always had something
for the babies; if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled
down to see the river, and was just about returning, unless they were
tired of his frequent calls.
Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and
invite him in? If she _was_ tired of his visits, she concealed her
weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee
for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea."
By the second week, every one knew perfectly well what was going on, yet
every one tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in
Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair
three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise; and no
one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while
talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in
love.
Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried
to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated
life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering,
after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her
especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with
praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer "a capital old fellow" in
public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved
appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's
hat on the Marches' hall-table nearly every evening. But he exulted in
private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of
plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate
coat-of-arms.
For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity;
then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign,--a
proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become
pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance!--very cross.
"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's
nothing to me, of course; but I _should_ think he would have come and
bid us good-by, like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a
despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary
walk, one dull afternoon.
"You'd better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain," said
her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding
to the fact.
"Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get
some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
"Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,
and something warm under your cloak?"
"I believe so," answered Jo absently.
"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to
see the dear man," added Mrs. March.
Jo heard _that_, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk
rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache,--
"How good she is to me! What _do_ girls do who haven't any mothers to
help them through their troubles?"
The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and
wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo found
herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
loitering along as if waiting for some one, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another with most
unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as
if they wondered "how the deuce she got there." A drop of rain on her
cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons; for
the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well as a lover, she
felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her
bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten
to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was unavailing, and nothing
could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at
the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black,
forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at
a certain grimy warehouse, with "Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co." over the door,
and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air,--