Little Women
heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to
tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and
there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be
time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not
let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.
“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for
her, I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.
But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and
business documents of various kinds were several of Jo’s letters, and
in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up
with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead
roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed, folded, and put them
neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring
thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the
letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint
Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not
overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the
rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.
The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and
fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold
his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping
somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice,
but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just
then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her
rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’.
Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,”
kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
and fears. The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them,
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.” It troubled her to
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn’t hate her for
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters
were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did
come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the
poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in
being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love
him. It couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to
have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other
girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a
brother.
If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never
lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested
in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent
him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences,
and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few
brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in
their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when
short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that
Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did
grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much
to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while
she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or
absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight
carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over
his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a
ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur
according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether
satisfactory.
Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
said to himself, with a venerable air...
“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve been
through it all, and I can sympathize.”
With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter
luxuriously.
While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But
the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when
the next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news
met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and
they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the
Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the
family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was
too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence
soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at
home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for
Laurie to come and comfort her.
He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment
he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow
pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy
and sorrow, hope and suspense.
He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en
pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to
take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be
in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of
sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could
not wait even a ‘flash of time’, and in the middle of the speech
departed to find mademoiselle himself.
A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide,
low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or
console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here
that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy
eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did
not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the
archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a
minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
before, the tender side of Amy’s character. Everything about her mutely
suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her
face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to
Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only
ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,
they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for
dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of
unmistakable love and longing...
“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!”
I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did
not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As
he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the
recollection of her impulsive greeting.
“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to speak
quite naturally.
“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and...” He could
not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did
not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his
shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took
her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better
than words.
“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said softly. “Beth is
well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I dread the going
home, much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about it now, for
it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go
right back, need you?”
“Not if you want me, dear.”
“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of
the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little
while.”
Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that
Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she
wanted—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she
needed.
“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick! I’m
going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and walk
about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he said,
in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied
on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon
his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,
a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully
for her alone.
The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.