Little Men: Life at Plumfield With Jo's Boys
lose; so dress quickly and come to me in my room. I must go to Daisy.”
“Yes, I will;” and when Aunt Jo was gone, little Demi got up quietly,
dressed as if in a dream, and leaving Tommy fast asleep went away
through the silent house, feeling that something new and sorrowful was
going to happen something that set him apart from the other boys for
a time, and made the world seem as dark and still and strange as those
familiar rooms did in the night. A carriage sent by Mr. Laurie stood
before the door. Daisy was soon ready, and the brother and sister held
each other by the hand all the way into town, as they drove swiftly and
silently with aunt and uncle through the shadowy roads to say good-by to
father.
None of the boys but Franz and Emil knew what had happened, and when
they came down next morning, great was their wonderment and discomfort,
for the house seemed forlorn without its master and mistress. Breakfast
was a dismal meal with no cheery Mrs. Jo behind the teapots; and when
school-time came, Father Bhaer's place was empty. They wandered about in
a disconsolate kind of way for an hour, waiting for news and hoping it
would be all right with Demi's father, for good John Brooke was much
beloved by the boys. Ten o'clock came, and no one arrived to relieve
their anxiety. They did not feel like playing, yet the time dragged
heavily, and they sat about listless and sober. All at once, Franz got
up, and said, in his persuasive way,
“Look here, boys! let's go into school and do our lessons just as if
Uncle was here. It will make the day go faster, and will please him, I
know.”
“But who will hear us say them?” asked Jack.
“I will; I don't know much more than you do, but I'm the oldest here,
and I'll try to fill Uncle's place till he comes, if you don't mind.”
Something in the modest, serious way Franz said this impressed the boys,
for, though the poor lad's eyes were red with quiet crying for Uncle
John in that long sad night, there was a new manliness about him, as if
he had already begun to feel the cares and troubles of life, and tried
to take them bravely.
“I will, for one,” and Emil went to his seat, remembering that obedience
to his superior officer is a seaman's first duty.
The others followed; Franz took his uncle's seat, and for an hour
order reigned. Lessons were learned and said, and Franz made a patient,
pleasant teacher, wisely omitting such lessons as he was not equal to,
and keeping order more by the unconscious dignity that sorrow gave him
than by any words of his own. The little boys were reading when a step
was heard in the hall, and every one looked up to read the news in Mr.
Bhaer's face as he came in. The kind face told them instantly that Demi
had no father now, for it was worn and pale, and full of tender grief,
which left him no words with which to answer Rob, as he ran to him,
saying, reproachfully,
“What made you go and leave me in the night, papa?”
The memory of the other father who had left his children in the night,
never to return, made Mr. Bhaer hold his own boy close, and, for a
minute, hide his face in Robby's curly hair. Emil laid his head down
on his arms, Franz, went to put his hand on his uncle's shoulder, his
boyish face pale with sympathy and sorrow, and the others sat so still
that the soft rustle of the falling leaves outside was distinctly heard.
Rob did not clearly understand what had happened, but he hated to see
papa unhappy, so he lifted up the bent head, and said, in his chirpy
little voice,
“Don't cry, mein Vater! we were all so good, we did our lessons, without
you, and Franz was the master.”
Mr. Bhaer looked up then, tried to smile, and said in a grateful tone
that made the lads feel like saints, “I thank you very much, my boys.
It was a beautiful way to help and comfort me. I shall not forget it, I
assure you.”
“Franz proposed it, and was a first-rate master, too,” said Nat; and the
others gave a murmur of assent most gratifying to the young dominie.
Mr. Bhaer put Rob down, and, standing up, put his arm round his tall
nephew's shoulder, as he said, with a look of genuine pleasure,
“This makes my hard day easier, and gives me confidence in you all. I
am needed there in town, and must leave you for some hours. I thought
to give you a holiday, or send some of you home, but if you like to stay
and go on as you have begun, I shall be glad and proud of my good boys.”
“We'll stay;” “We'd rather;” “Franz can see to us;” cried several,
delighted with the confidence shown in them.
“Isn't Marmar coming home?” asked Rob, wistfully; for home without
“Marmar” was the world without the sun to him.
“We shall both come to-night; but dear Aunt Meg needs Mother more than
you do now, and I know you like to lend her for a little while.”
“Well, I will; but Teddy's been crying for her, and he slapped Nursey,
and was dreadful naughty,” answered Rob, as if the news might bring
mother home.
“Where is my little man?” asked Mr. Bhaer.
“Dan took him out, to keep him quiet. He's all right now,” said Franz,
pointing to the window, through which they could see Dan drawing baby in
his little wagon, with the dogs frolicking about him.
“I won't see him, it would only upset him again; but tell Dan I leave
Teddy in his care. You older boys I trust to manage yourselves for a
day. Franz will direct you, and Silas is here to over see matters. So
good-by till to-night.”
“Just tell me a word about Uncle John,” said Emil, detaining Mr. Bhaer,
as he was about hurrying away again.
“He was only ill a few hours, and died as he has lived, so cheerfully,
so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of it with any
violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say good-by: and Daisy and
Demi were in his arms as he fell asleep on Aunt Meg's breast. No more
now, I cannot bear it,” and Mr. Bhaer went hastily away quite bowed with
grief, for in John Brooke he had lost both friend and brother, and there
was no one left to take his place.
All that day the house was very still; the small boys played quietly in
the nursery; the others, feeling as if Sunday had come in the middle
of the week, spent it in walking, sitting in the willow, or among their
pets, all talking much of “Uncle John,” and feeling that something
gentle, just, and strong, had gone out of their little world, leaving a
sense of loss that deepened every hour. At dusk, Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer came
home alone, for Demi and Daisy were their mother's best comfort now,
and could not leave her. Poor Mrs. Jo seemed quite spent, and evidently
needed the same sort of comfort, for her first words, as she came up the
stairs, were, “Where is my baby?”
“Here I is,” answered a little voice, as Dan put Teddy into her arms,
adding, as she hugged him close, “My Danny tooked tare of me all day,
and I was dood.”
Mrs. Jo turned to thank the faithful nurse, but Dan was waving off the
boys, who had gathered in the hall to meet her, and was saying, in a low
voice, “Keep back; she don't want to be bothered with us now.”
“No, don't keep back. I want you all. Come in and see me, my boys. I've
neglected you all day,” and Mrs. Jo held out her hands to them as they
gathered round and escorted her into her own room, saying little, but
expressing much by affectionate looks and clumsy little efforts to show
their sorrow and sympathy.
“I am so tired, I will lie here and cuddle Teddy, and you shall bring me
in some tea,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully for their sakes.
A general stampede into the dining-room followed, and the supper-table
would have been ravaged if Mr. Bhaer had not interfered. It was agreed
that one squad should carry in the mother's tea, and another bring it
out. The four nearest and dearest claimed the first honor, so Franz bore
the teapot, Emil the bread, Rob the milk, and Teddy insisted on carrying
the sugar basin, which was lighter by several lumps when it arrived than
when it started. Some women might have found it annoying at such a time
to have boys creaking in and out, upsetting cups and rattling spoons in
violent efforts to be quiet and helpful; but it suited Mrs. Jo, because
just then her heart was very tender; and remembering that many of her
boys were fatherless or motherless, she yearned over them, and found
comfort in their blundering affection. It was the sort of food that did
her more good than the very thick bread-and-butter that they gave her,
and the rough Commodore's broken whisper,
“Bear up, Aunty, it's a hard blow; but we'll weather it somehow;”
cheered her more than the sloppy cup he brought her, full of tea as
bitter as if some salt tear of his own had dropped into it on the way.
When supper was over, a second deputation removed the tray; and Dan
said, holding out his arms for sleepy little Teddy,
“Let me put him to bed, you're so tired, Mother.”
“Will you go with him, lovey?” asked Mrs. Jo of her small lord and
master, who lay on her arm among the sofa-pillows.
“Torse I will;” and he was proudly carried off by his faithful bearer.
“I wish I could do something,” said Nat, with a sigh, as Franz leaned
over the sofa, and softly stroked Aunt Jo's hot forehead.
“You can, dear. Go and get your violin, and play me the sweet little
airs Uncle Teddy sent you last. Music will comfort me better than any
thing else to-night.”
Nat flew for his fiddle, and, sitting just outside her door, played as
he had never done before, for now his heart was in it, and seemed
to magnetize his fingers. The other lads sat quietly upon the steps,
keeping watch that no new-comer should disturb the house; Franz lingered
at his post; and so, soothed, served, and guarded by her boys, poor Mrs.
Jo slept at last, and forgot her sorrow for an hour.
Two quiet days, and on the third Mr. Bhaer came in just after school,
with a note in his hand, looking both moved and pleased.
“I want to read you something, boys,” he said; and as they stood round
him he read this:
“DEAR BROTHER FRITZ, I hear that you do not mean to bring your flock
today, thinking that I may not like it. Please do. The sight of his
friends will help Demi through the hard hour, and I want the boys to
hear what father says of my John. It will do them good, I know. If they
would sing one of the sweet old hymns you have taught them so well,
I should like it better than any other music, and feel that it was
beautifully suited to the occasion. Please ask them, with my love.
“MEG.”
“Will you go?” and Mr. Bhaer looked at the lads, who were greatly
touched by Mrs. Brooke's kind words and wishes.
“Yes,” they answered, like one boy; and an hour later they went away
with Franz to bear their part in John Brooke's simple funeral.
The little house looked as quiet, sunny, and home-like as when Meg
entered it as a bride, ten years ago, only then it was early summer,
and rose blossomed everywhere; now it was early autumn, and dead leaves
rustled softly down, leaving the branches bare. The bride was a widow
now; but the same beautiful serenity shone in her face, and the sweet
resignation of a truly pious soul made her presence a consolation to
those who came to comfort her.
“O Meg! how can you bear it so?” whispered Jo, as she met them at the
door with a smile of welcome, and no change in her gentle manner, except
more gentleness.
“Dear Jo, the love that has blest me for ten happy years supports me
still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever,” whispered
Meg; and in her eyes the tender trust was so beautiful and bright, that
Jo believed her, and thanked God for the immortality of love like hers.
They were all there father and mother, Uncle Teddy, and Aunt Amy, old
Mr. Laurence, white-haired and feeble now, Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer, with
their flock, and many friends, come to do honor to the dead. One would