Little Women
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo.”
“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t tell me, didn’t let me comfort and help you?
How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?”
Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.
“Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn’t sure, no one
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish
to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away,
and you so happy with Laurie—at least I thought so then.”
“And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn’t,” cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.
Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
and added softly, “Then you didn’t, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and
imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while.”
“Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how
can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I
hope he truly will be, sometime.”
“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”
“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel
more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”
“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young, Beth. I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight against
it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can’t
be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor
Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than
Beth’s.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows
itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did
not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He
draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for
life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, “I try to be
willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, “You’ll tell them this
when we go home?”
“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo, for now it seemed
to her that Beth changed every day.
“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for
me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and
Mother, won’t you Jo?”
“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet. I’m going to believe that it
is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true.” said Jo, trying to
speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, “I don’t
know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone but you,
because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I
have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not
like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I’d do when I
grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and
the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”
Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little
gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach ‘peeping’ softly to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth,
and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,
dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt
comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and
remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than
the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,
confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and
Mother said they reminded her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures,
always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song
of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and
the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the
turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up
among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear
little girl! She’s so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and
no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I
shall see her again, but she seems so far away.”
“She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
see and enjoy her. I’m going to have you well and rosy by that time,”
began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change
was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
“Jo, dear, don’t hope any more. It won’t do any good. I’m sure of that.
We won’t be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We’ll
have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and I think the tide will go
out easily, if you help me.”
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss,
she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for
Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from
seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying
how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she
would be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret. Her father
stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came
in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went
to comfort her without a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
NEW IMPRESSIONS
At three o’clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice
may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place, for the wide
walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on
one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels
and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many
nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and
on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.
Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly
Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or
saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest
celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the
Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the
company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket
barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing
ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the
diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.
Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with
his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.
He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the
independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs
of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in
black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange
flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy
him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the
young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at
some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade
and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and
listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach
toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as
one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came
rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in
blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his
hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
“Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy,
dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great
scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps,
lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these
‘mad English’.
“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you,
and here I am.”
“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”
“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you
were out.”
“I have so much to say, I don’t know where to begin! Get in and we can
talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company.
Flo’s saving up for tonight.”
“What happens then, a ball?”
“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and
they give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? Aunt
will be charmed.”
“Thank you. Where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his
arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her
parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies’ backs afforded her
infinite satisfaction.
“I’m going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill.
The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever
been there?”
“Often, years ago, but I don’t mind having a look at it.”
“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your
grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.”
“Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has
settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse
him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally.”
“That’s a sociable arrangement,” said Amy, missing something in
Laurie’s manner, though she couldn’t tell what.
“Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each
suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he
enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see
me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he
added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the
Place Napoleon in the old city.
“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills are
delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my
delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It’s
going to the Church of St. John.”