Little Women
Give us something gayer, lad,” said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart
was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.
Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several
minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull
Mrs. March’s voice had not been heard calling, “Jo, dear, come in. I
want you.”
Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he
listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and
the musician sat silent in the dark.
“I can’t stand this,” muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his
way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders,
and said, as gently as a woman, “I know, my boy, I know.”
No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, “Who told you?”
“Jo herself.”
“Then there’s an end of it!” And he shook off his grandfather’s hands
with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his
man’s pride could not bear a man’s pity.
“Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of
it,” returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. “You won’t care to
stay at home now, perhaps?”
“I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my seeing
her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted Laurie
in a defiant tone.
“Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but the
girl can’t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away
for a time. Where will you go?”
“Anywhere. I don’t care what becomes of me,” and Laurie got up with a
reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather’s ear.
“Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s sake. Why
not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?”
“I can’t.”
“But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got
through college.”
“Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast through the
room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.
“I don’t ask you to go alone. There’s someone ready and glad to go with
you, anywhere in the world.”
“Who, Sir?” stopping to listen.
“Myself.”
Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying
huskily, “I’m a selfish brute, but—you know—Grandfather—”
“Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before,
once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,
just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be
carried out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,
as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before
him.
“Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down, without a sign of
interest in face or voice.
“There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you
should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here
will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost
everything, I’m merely holding on until you take my place, and can be
off at any time.”
“But you hate traveling, Sir. I can’t ask it of you at your age,” began
Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go
alone, if he went at all.
The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to
prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him
that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling
a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave
behind him, he said stoutly, “Bless your soul, I’m not superannuated
yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won’t
suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a
chair.”
A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,
or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, “I
don’t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you’d feel
happier than if I was left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with
you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in
my own way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit
them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you
will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your
heart’s content.”
Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the
world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the
old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken
heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly
appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a
spiritless tone, “Just as you like, Sir. It doesn’t matter where I go
or what I do.”
“It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I
trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.”
“Anything you like, Sir.”
“Good,” thought the old gentleman. “You don’t care now, but there’ll
come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I’m
much mistaken.”
Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was
hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,
they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore
himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody,
irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress
and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided
Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a
tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of
his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to
attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a
relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very
uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the ‘poor, dear fellow was
going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy’. Of course, he
smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad
superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was
unalterable.
When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain
inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This
gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did
for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with
a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going
very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the
afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a
minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look
round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above
him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal
eloquent and pathetic.
“Oh, Jo, can’t you?”
“Teddy, dear, I wish I could!”
That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself
up, said, “It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another
word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly
head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she
had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look
behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
BETH’S SECRET
When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in
Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by
absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo’s heart as she
saw her sister’s face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in
the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first
impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one
appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo
for a time forgot her fear.
But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety
returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven,
but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had
thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home.
Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as
Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth
down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and
let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.
It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and
went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the
feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
separation was not far away.
They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves
and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her
heart and Beth’s, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there
seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to
speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not
seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows
grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home,
believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She
wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and
what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when
she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the winds
blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.
One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and
putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to
see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth’s cheeks. But she could
not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the
hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had
been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth
was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened
their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her
eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking
up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,
“Jo, dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve tried to tell you, but I
couldn’t.”
There was no answer except her sister’s cheek against her own, not even
tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about
her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.
“I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I’m used to it, it isn’t
hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don’t be troubled
about me, because it’s best, indeed it is.”
“Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked Jo, refusing
to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no
part in Beth’s trouble.
“Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn’t like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But
when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was