Little Women
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it all—the
child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never
thought of such a thing!”
With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
with more than her usual success.
At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get
clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.
The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and
moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring
ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away
the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly
down upon them saying, “Little children, love one another.”
In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he
had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for
the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the
same as Jo’s self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one
of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be
grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should
be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene,
hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without
words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so
naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would
be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been
crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so
Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance
the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and
sweetest part of his new romance.
He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne
upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.
They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for
the sake of saying something...
“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,
for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.”
“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t
trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered
third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She
rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both
hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went
smoothly through the water.
“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to
silence just then.
“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?” very tenderly.
“Yes, Laurie,” very low.
Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
in the lake.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ALL ALONE
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she ‘comfort Father and
Mother’ when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister, how could she ‘make the house cheerful’ when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old
home for the new, and where in all the world could she ‘find some
useful, happy work to do’, that would take the place of the loving
service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless
way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it
seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made
heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some
people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not
fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,
only disappointment, trouble and hard work.
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that
never seemed to grow any easier. “I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a
life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something
desperate if somebody doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself,
when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable
state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the
inevitable.
But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth,
come back! Come back!” she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister’s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms.
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,
“Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,
for I’m all wrong.”
“My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,” he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask for it.
Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not
only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to
serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called ‘the church of
one member’, and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
Other helps had Jo—humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not
be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to
see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as
they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of
her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the
old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth’s orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the
hand...
“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss that dear
lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and the Lord
will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.”
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should
blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always
_‘perwisin’_ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in
the topsy-turvy nursery.
“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will
fall off.”
“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by them,”
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg’s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo’s was nearly ready for
the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy’s
impatient shake, but a man’s hand reached up to pick it gently from the