“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered.
“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret; humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success.”
“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine; I owe it all to you and Mother and to Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world.
So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for “the children” before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.
“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one another.
“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the ‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.”
“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to me.”
“Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled.”
“I’m not the scatterbrain I was; you may trust me, I’m sober and sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.”
“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved anyone else.”
“Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?”
“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart; so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now.”
“No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I’m glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing: I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes,’ not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away.”
“I’m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward.”
“Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind whispering to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds. It’s very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I’d no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don’t understand it.”
“I do.” And Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
“It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn’t sentimental, doesn’t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don’t seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it’s mine. He says he feels as if he ‘could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.’ I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!”
“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” And Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again.
By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing for some one to “love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together.”
Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner’s name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke’s. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor’s hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.
“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come.”
“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my dear old Fritz, I didn’t value him half enough when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and I’m all alone.”
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say?
43
Surprises
Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that; there was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.
“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I’m old, and can’t enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and don’t need it.kp Well, I needn’t be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but—” And there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty; but it’s not so bad as it looks, and one can get on quite ha
ppily if one has something in one’s self to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don’t laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason; and, looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time; that rosy cheeks don’t last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.
Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them; and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for “the best nevvy in the world.”
Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie’s ghost seemed to stand before her—a substantial, lifelike ghost—leaning over her with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn’t like to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad—
She could not think it he,
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully—
“O my Teddy! O my Teddy!”
“Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?”
“Glad! My blessed boy, words can’t express my gladness. Where’s Amy?”
“Your mother has got her down at Meg’s. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches.”
“Your what?” cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
“Oh, the dickens! Now I’ve done it.” And he looked so guilty that Jo was down upon him like a flash.
“You’ve gone and got married!”
“Yes, please, but I never will again.” And he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph.
“Actually married?”
“Very much so, thank you.”
“Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?” And Jo fell into her seat with a gasp.
“A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,” returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.
“What can you expect, when you take one’s breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it.”
“Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade.”
Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, “The old pillow is up garret, and we don’t need it now; so, come and fess, Teddy.”
“How good it sounds to hear you say ‘Teddy’! No one ever calls me that but you.” And Laurie sat down with an air of great content.
“What does Amy call you?”
“My lord.”
“That’s like her. Well, you look it.” And Jo’s eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.
The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless—a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity—
“Don’t I look like a married man and the head of a family?”
“Not a bit, and you never will. You’ve grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegracekq as ever.”
“Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect,” began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
“How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can’t keep sober!” answered Jo, smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
“It’s no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn’t wait; I wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have ‘first skim,’ as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream.”
“Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I’m pining to know.”
“Well, I did it to please Amy,” began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim—
“Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir.”
“Now she’s beginning to marm it;kr isn’t it jolly to hear her?” said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed. “It’s all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn’t let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn’t let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, ‘Let’s be married, and then we can do as we like.”’
“Of course you did; you always have things to suit you.”
“Not always.” And something in Laurie’s voice made Jo say hastily—
“How did you ever get Aunt to agree?”
“It was hard work, but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn’t time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only ‘taking Time by the fetlock,’ as my wife says.”
“Aren’t we proud of those two words, and don’t we like to say them?” interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
“A trifle, perhaps, she’s such a captivating little woman I can’t help being proud of her. Well, then, Uncle and Aunt were there to play propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round, so we did it.”
“When, where, how?” asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
“Six weeks ago, at the American consul‘s, in Paris; a very quiet wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn’t forget dear little Beth.”
Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well.
“Why didn’t you let us know afterward?” asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.
“We wanted to surprise you; we thought we we
re coming directly home, at first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn’t be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn’t it love among the roses!”
Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before—
“Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we’ll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that’s all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn’t know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love both alike; but I couldn‘t, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new; that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?”
“I’ll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again: the happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I’m sure you feel this. I see the change in you, and you’ll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can’t be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won’t we, Laurie?”