and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm
ashamed of you! No, you shall _not_ go there to borrow an umbrella, or
find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do
your errands in the rain; and if you catch your death and ruin your
bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"
With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly
escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into
the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am,"
and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself,
spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and, putting
temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the
ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a
somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected
bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer
looking down.
[Illustration: Looking up she saw Mr. Bhaer]
"I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many
horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my
friend?"
"I'm shopping."
Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side, to
the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only said
politely,--
"You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?"
"Yes, thank you."
Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought
of her; but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking
away arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly
burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again,
and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that
day.
"We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking
at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he
might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
"Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been
so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if
she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily,--
"No, _I_ didn't; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we
rather missed you,--father and mother especially."
"And you?"
"I'm always glad to see you, sir."
In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and
the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor,
for his smile vanished, as he said gravely,--
"I thank you, and come one time more before I go."
"You _are_ going, then?"
"I haf no longer any business here; it is done."
"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment
was in that short reply of his.
"I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make
my bread and gif my Jünglings much help."
"Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo
eagerly.
"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in
a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way
smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?"
"Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you
like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to
the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.
"Ah! but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the West."
"So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't
matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read
women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was,
therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner,
which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a
dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him
she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that
she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she
took it with a look that filled him with delight; but when he asked if
she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell
upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands: was
the joy all for the boys? Then, on hearing his destination, she said,
"So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of
hope; but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like
one entirely absorbed in the matter,--
"Here's the place for my errands; will you come in? It won't take long."
Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and
particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and despatch
with which she would accomplish the business. But, owing to the flutter
she was in, everything went amiss; she upset the tray of needles, forgot
the silesia was to be "twilled" till it was cut off, gave the wrong
change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon
at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and
blunder; and, as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside,
for he was beginning to see that on some occasions women, like dreams,
go by contraries.
When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful
aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it, on
the whole.
"Should we not do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and
haf a farewell feast to-night if I go for my last call at your so
pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and
flowers.
"What will we buy?" said Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and
sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went
in.
"May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.
"They eat them when they can get them."
"Do you care for nuts?"
"Like a squirrel."
"Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in those?"
Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy
a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and done with
it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and
finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy
daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a
demijohn. Then, distorting his pockets with the knobby bundles, and
giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they
travelled on again.
"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor,
after a moist promenade of half a block.
"Yes, sir;" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would
hear it.
"I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time
remains to me."
"Yes, sir;" and Jo nearly crushed the small flower-pot with the sudden
squeeze she gave it.
"I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go
alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"
"Yes, sir;" and Jo felt as calm and cool, all of a sudden, as if she had
stepped into a refrigerator.
"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and
the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a
friendly thing to take the little mother."
"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I'm going very fast and he's
getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself; then, with a mental
shake, she entered into the business with an energy which was pleasant
to behold.
Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and
then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man,
condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
shopping for their family.
"Your lady may prefer this; it's a superior article, a most desirable
color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable
gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders.
[Illustration: Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?]
"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him,
and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.
"Excellently well; we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to
himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters
like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
"Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to
him.
"Yes; it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than
she knew; for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came
out, the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time
she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her
heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr.
Bhaer was going away; he only cared for her as a friend; it was all a
mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her
head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that
the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.
"This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded
vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.
"I beg your pardon, I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can
walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard,
because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.
Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away;
the sight seemed to touch him very much, for, suddenly stooping down, he
asked in a tone that meant a great deal,--
"Heart's dearest, why do you cry?"
Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said
she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine
fib proper to the occasion; instead of which that undignified creature
answered, with an irrepressible sob,--
"Because you are going away."
"Ach, mein Gott, that is _so_ good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp
his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles. "Jo, I haf nothing
but much love to gif you; I came to see if you could care for it, and I
waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can
you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in
one breath.
"Oh, yes!" said Jo; and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both
hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly
showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even
though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried
it.
It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for, even if he had
desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account
of the mud; neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for
both were full; much less could he indulge in tender demonstrations in
the open street, though he was near it: so the only way in which he
could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which
glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be
little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not
loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done it _then_, for she
looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her
rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately,
Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found
him more "Jove-like" than ever, though his hat-brim was quite limp with
the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the
umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.
Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they
entirely forgot to hail a 'bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious
of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for
they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any
life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the
plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.
The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had
nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss; while Jo trudged beside
him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how
she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first
to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed
her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable
character.
"Friedrich, why didn't you--"
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!"
cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful
delight.
"I always call you so to myself--I forgot; but I won't, unless you like
it."
"Like it? it is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou,' also, and
I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
"Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a
lovely monosyllable.
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep
ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou,'
heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a
romantic student than a grave professor.
"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo
bashfully.
"Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will,
because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo,--ah, the
dear, funny little name!--I had a wish to tell something the day I said
good-by, in New York; but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to
thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes,' then, if I _had_
spoken?"
"I don't know; I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then."
"Prut! that I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came
through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die
beste;' but that I should not expect."
"Yes, the first love _is_ the best; so be contented, for I never had
another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said
Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
"Good! then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I
haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin."
"I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what
brought you, at last, just when I most wanted you?"
"This;" and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his
waistcoat-pocket.
Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own
contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her
sending it an occasional attempt.
"How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant.
"I found it by chance; I knew it by the names and the initials, and in
it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him;
I will see that you go not in the wet."
Jo obeyed, and hastily skimmed through the lines which she had
christened--
"IN THE GARRET.
"Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
All fashioned and filled, long ago,
By children now in their prime.
Four little keys hung side by side,
With faded ribbons, brave and gay
When fastened there, with childish pride,
Long ago, on a rainy day.
Four little names, one on each lid,
Carved out by a boyish hand,
And underneath there lieth hid
Histories of the happy band
Once playing here, and pausing oft
To hear the sweet refrain,
That came and went on the roof aloft,
In the falling summer rain.
"'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair.
I look in with loving eyes,
For folded here, with well-known care,
A goodly gathering lies,
The record of a peaceful life,--
Gifts to gentle child and girl,
A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
No toys in this first chest remain,
For all are carried away,
In their old age, to join again
In another small Meg's play.
Ah, happy mother! well I know
You hear, like a sweet refrain,
Lullabies ever soft and low
In the falling summer rain.
"'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn,
And within a motley store
Of headless dolls, of school-books torn,
Birds and beasts that speak no more;
Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
Only trod by youthful feet,
Dreams of a future never found,
Memories of a past still sweet;
Half-writ poems, stories wild,
April letters, warm and cold,
Diaries of a wilful child,
Hints of a woman early old;
A woman in a lonely home,
Hearing, like a sad refrain,--
'Be worthy love, and love will come,'
In the falling summer rain.
"My Beth! the dust is always swept
From the lid that bears your name,
As if by loving eyes that wept,
By careful hands that often came.
Death canonized for us one saint,
Ever less human than divine,
And still we lay, with tender plaint,
Relics in this household shrine.--
The silver bell, so seldom rung,
The little cap which last she wore,
The fair, dead Catherine that hung
By angels borne above her door;
The songs she sang, without lament,
In her prison-house of pain,
Forever are they sweetly blent
With the falling summer rain.
"Upon the last lid's polished field--
Legend now both fair and true--
A gallant knight bears on his shield,
'Amy,' in letters gold and blue.
Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
Slippers that have danced their last,
Faded flowers laid by with care,
Fans whose airy toils are past;
Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
Trifles that have borne their part
In girlish hopes and fears and shames,--
The record of a maiden heart
Now learning fairer, truer spells,
Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
The silver sound of bridal bells
In the falling summer rain.
"Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
Four women, taught by weal and woe
To love and labor in their prime.
Four sisters, parted for an hour,
None lost, one only gone before,
Made by love's immortal power,
Nearest and dearest evermore.
Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
Lie open to the Father's sight,
May they be rich in golden hours,
Deeds that show fairer for the light,
Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
Like a spirit-stirring strain,
Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
In the long sunshine after rain.
"J. M."
"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was
very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag-bag. I never thought it would
go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the
Professor had treasured so long.
"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read
all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr.
Bhaer, with a smile, as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind.
"Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, 'She has
a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a
heart full, full for her; shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too
poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's
name?'"
"And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious
thing I needed," whispered Jo.
"I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your
welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf
her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant
nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he
was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.
"What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so
pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that
she could not keep silent.
"It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that
so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to give you, after
much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much
for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"
"I'm glad you _are_ poor; I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo
decidedly, adding, in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty; I've known it
long enough to lose my dread, and be happy working for those I love; and
don't call yourself old,--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help
loving you if you were seventy!"
The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his
handkerchief, if he could have got at it; as he couldn't, Jo wiped his
eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two,--
"I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now,
for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.
Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as
he tried to reclaim his load.
"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away
and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you,
I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy
while we hope and wait?"
"Yes, I know I can; for we love one another, and that makes all the rest
easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself
if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or
impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both
be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
wills."
"Ah! thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back
but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite
overcome.
[Illustration: Under the umbrella]
Jo never, never would learn to be proper; for when he said that as they
stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
tenderly, "Not empty now;" and, stooping down, kissed her Friedrich
under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the
flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for
she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her
own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the
crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and
storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting
to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and
shut the door.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Harvest time]
XLVII.
HARVEST TIME.
For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began
rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March
died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,--for they loved the
old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,--they found they had cause for
rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of
joyful things possible.
"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course you
intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter
over, some weeks later.
"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
"You don't mean to live there?"
"Yes, I do."
"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."
"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."
"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo laughed.
"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,--a good, happy, homelike
school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach them."
"There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried
Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.
"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.
"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her
one all-absorbing son.
"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a
hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.