LITTLE WOMEN
PART 20
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
MY
LORD AND LADY
"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me
my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of
Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," said Laurie,
coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if
being made 'the baby' again.
"Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you
have any home but this," and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore
the wedding ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
"I shouldn't have come over if I could
have helped it, but I can't get on without my little woman any more than
a..."
"Weathercock can without the wind,"
suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self
again since Teddy came home.
"Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due
west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and
I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married. Don't know anything about
the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"
"Lovely weather so far. I don't know how
long it will last, but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail
my ship. Come home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose that's what
you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said
Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
"What are you going to do with
yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she
used to button her pinafores.
"We have our plans. We don't mean to say
much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend
to be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight
Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need something of the
sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a
man."
"And Amy, what is she going to do?"
asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision and the energy with which
he spoke.
"After doing the civil all round, and
airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of
our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial
influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it,
Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy.
"Time will show. Come away,
Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their
faces," answered Amy, resolving that there should be a home with a good
wife in it before she set up a salon as a queen of society.
"How happy those children seem
together!" observed Mr. March, finding it difficult to become absorbed in
his Aristotle after the young couple had gone.
"Yes, and I think it will last,"
added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship
safely into port.
"I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo
sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an
impatient push.
Later in the evening, when his mind had been
set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs.
Laurence."
"My Lord!"
"That man intends to marry our Jo!"
"I hope so, don't you, dear?"
"Well, my love, I consider him a trump,
in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little
younger and a good deal richer."
"Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious
and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how
old they are nor how poor. Women never should marry for money..." Amy
caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband,
who replied, with malicious gravity...
"Certainly not, though you do hear
charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me,
you once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for
your marrying a good-for-nothing like me."
"Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say
that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you
hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I
love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in
private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.
"You don't really think I am such a
mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if
you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you
had to get your living by rowing on the lake."
"Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I
think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half
I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and
are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and
though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter
was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she looked as
glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in
charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence," and
Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face.
"Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in
your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess
that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but
your nose is such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut
feature with artistic satisfaction.
Laurie had received many compliments in his
life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did
laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you
a question, dear?"
"Of course, you may."
"Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr.
Bhaer?"
"Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought
there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog
in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's
wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"
Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her
little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of
love and confidence.
"I wish we could do something for that
capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly
die out there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said
Laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm,
as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
"Jo would find us out, and spoil it all.
She is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought
poverty was a beautiful thing."
"Bless her dear heart! She won't think
so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and
professorins to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do
them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education,
and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her
in that way."
"How delightful it is to be able to help
others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving
freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true."
"Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't
we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out
beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't
ask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of
helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not
offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a
blarnerying beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is harder."
"Because it takes a gentleman to do
it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society.
"Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve
that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about
abroad, I saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of
sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams.
Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so
full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, and
longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a
satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to
serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot
boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep
them from despair when they find it out."
"Yes, indeed, and there's another class
who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I
belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the
beggarmaid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and
often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for
want of a little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me,
and whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out
my hand and help them, as I was helped."
"And so you shall, like an angel as you
are!" cried Laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found
and endow an institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic
tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves,
or let their money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to
leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and
enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time
ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a
generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket
of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"
"With all my heart, if you will be a
brave St. Martin, stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share
your cloak with the beggar."
"It's a bargain, and we shall get the
best of it!"
So the young pair shook hands upon it, and
then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike
because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would
walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough
ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit
together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
DAISY
AND DEMI
I cannot feel that I have done my duty as
humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to
the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now
arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four
assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders
do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by
adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most
remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they walked
at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took
their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all
beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with
four stitches in it. She likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and
managed a microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to
Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who
invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with his arms
and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a
mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he
tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic
condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of string, chairs,
clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go 'wound and wound'. Also a basket hung
over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding
sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till
rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, Marmar, dat's
my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."
Though utterly unlike in character, the twins
got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day.
Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every
other aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her
brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little
soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there. One
of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned
and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval on all
festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been
quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human.
It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the
window in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether it
rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a
friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most
inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshipers.
"Me loves evvybody," she once said,
opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if
eager to embrace and nourish the whole world.
As she grew, her mother began to feel that
the Dovecote would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving
as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might
be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had
entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her 'Beth', and her
grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for
some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see.
Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring
turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he
could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?"
He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the
great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with
him, in which the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the
undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk.
"What makes my legs go, Dranpa?"
asked the young philosopher, surveying those active portions of his frame with
a meditative air, while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
"It's your little mind, Demi,"
replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully.
"What is a little mine?"
"It is something which makes your body
move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to
you."
"Open me. I want to see it go
wound."
"I can't do that any more than you could
open the watch. God winds you up, and you go till He stops you."
"Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes
grew big and bright as he took in the new thought. "Is I wounded up like
the watch?"
"Yes, but I can't show you how, for it
is done when we don't see."
Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find
it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it
when I's asleep."
A careful explanation followed, to which he
listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said, "My dear, do
you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby? He's getting great
bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions."
"If he is old enough to ask the question
he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into
his head, but helping him unfold those already there. These children are wiser
than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to
him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind."
If the boy had replied like Alcibiades,
"By the gods, Socrates, I cannot tell," his grandfather would not
have been surprised, but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a
meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my
little belly," the old gentleman could only join in Grandma's laugh, and
dismiss the class in metaphysics.
There might have been cause for maternal
anxiety, if Demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as
well as a budding philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused
Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this
world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the
pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight
their parent's souls.
Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep
them, but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious
evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early
show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers?
"No more raisins, Demi. They'll make you
sick," says Mamma to the young person who offers his services in the
kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.
"Me likes to be sick."
"I don't want to have you, so run away
and help Daisy make patty cakes."
He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh
upon his spirit, and by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he
outwits Mamma by a shrewd bargain.
"Now you have been good children, and
I'll play anything you like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks
upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
"Truly, Marmar?" asks Demi, with a
brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.
"Yes, truly. Anything you say,"
replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing, "The Three Little
Kittens" half a dozen times over, or to take her family to "Buy a
penny bun," regardless of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool
reply...
"Then we'll go and eat up all the
raisins."
Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante
of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy
was as yet only a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague
memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for
which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected
her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy,
who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became
bankrupt. Demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to
play with 'the bear-man' better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed
his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of
chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of
its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
Some persons might have considered these
pleasing liberties as bribes, but Demi didn't see it in that light, and
continued to patronize the 'the bear-man' with pensive affability, while Daisy
bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his
shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth.
Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden
fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their
regard, but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and
does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however
likewise effective—for honesty is the best policy in love as in law. He was one
of the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when
little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business,
whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to
bring him out to see—well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was
the attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and
reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of
his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the
threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone
upon the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside
him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own
short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed that they
were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and
Jo cried out, with a scandalized face...
"Father, Father, here's the Professor!"
Down went the black legs and up came the gray
head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "Good evening, Mr.
Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi,
make the letter and tell its name."
"I knows him!" and, after a few
convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the
intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, Dranpa, it's a
We!"
"He's a born Weller," laughed Jo,
as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head,
as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
"What have you been at today,
bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast.
"Me went to see little Mary."
"And what did you there?"
"I kissed her," began Demi, with
artless frankness.
"Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did
the little Mary say to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the
young sinner, who stood upon the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.
"Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me,
and I liked it. Don't little boys like little girls?" asked Demi, with his
mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction.
"You precocious chick! Who put that into
your head?" said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor.
"'Tisn't in mine head, it's in mine
mouf," answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate
drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
"Thou shouldst save some for the little
friend. Sweets to the sweet, mannling," and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some,
with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the
gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. ..
"Do great boys like great girls, to,
'Fessor?"
Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer 'couldn't
tell a lie', so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did
sometimes, in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at
Jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the 'precocious
chick' had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.
Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china
closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little
body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she
followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of
bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small
wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
UNDER
THE UMBRELLA
While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal
strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a
blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort,
along muddy roads and sodden fields.
"I always do take a walk toward evening,
and I don't know why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the
Professor on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or three
encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she
was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly,
and never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his
short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that
moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something for the babies.
If her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river,
and was just returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.
Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but
greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she
concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be
coffee for supper, "as Friedrich—I mean Mr. Bhaer—doesn't like tea."
By the second week, everyone knew perfectly
well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind
to the changes in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did
up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise.
And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while
talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.
Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous
manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a
somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for
surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie
was her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with
praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow' in
public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or
expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches'
table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time
to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff
on it as an appropriate coat of arms.
For a fortnight, the Professor came and went
with lover-like regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made
no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become
pensive, at first, and then—alas for romance—very cross.
"Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as
suddenly as he came. It's nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would
have come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with
a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk
one dull afternoon.
"You'd better take the little umbrella,
dear. It looks like rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her
new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact.
"Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in
town? I've got to run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the
bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
"Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a
paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you
got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?"
"I believe so," answered Jo
absently.
"If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring
him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March.
Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to
kiss her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in
spite of her heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who
haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?"
The dry-goods stores were not down among the
counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do
congregate, but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a
single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine
interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and
hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wondered 'how the
deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from
baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to fall, and being a
woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her
heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she
had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and
nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at
the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward
along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain
grimy warehouse, with 'Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' over the door, and said to
herself, with a sternly reproachful air...
"It serves me right! what business had I
to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the
Professor? Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an
umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and
do your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet,
it's no more than you deserve. Now then!"
With that she rushed across the street so
impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and
precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said,
"I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted,
Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and
putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the
ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat
dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted
her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.
"I feel to know the strong-minded lady
who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What
do you down here, my friend?"
"I'm shopping."
Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the
pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the
other, but he only said politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and
take for you the bundles?"
"Yes, thank you."
Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and
she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she
found herself walking away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun
had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right
again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that
day.
"We thought you had gone," said Jo
hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to
hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
"Did you believe that I should go with
no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so
reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and
answered heartily...
"No, I didn't. I knew you were busy
about your own affairs, but we rather missed you, Father and Mother
especially."
"And you?"
"I'm always glad to see you, sir."
In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm,
Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to
chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...
"I thank you, and come one more time
before I go."
"You are going, then?"
"I haf no longer any business here, it
is done."
"Successfully, I hope?" said Jo,
for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his.
"I ought to think so, for I haf a way
opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help."
"Tell me, please! I like to know all about
the—the boys," said Jo eagerly.
"That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My
friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn
enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be
grateful, should I not?"
"Indeed you should. How splendid it will
be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the
boys!" cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction
she could not help betraying.
"Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear,
this place is at the West."
"So far away!" and Jo left her
skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or
herself.
Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but
he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo
pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice,
face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she
was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met
him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she
had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it
with a look that filled him with delight, but when he asked if she missed him,
she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning
his good fortune she almost clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys?
Then on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone
of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she
tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the
matter...
"Here's the place for my errands. Will
you come in? It won't take long."
Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping
capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness
and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the
flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles,
forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong
change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the
calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he
watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see
that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries.
When they came out, he put the parcel under
his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he
rather enjoyed it on the whole.
"Should we no do a little what you call
shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last
call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of
fruit and flowers.
"What will we buy?" asked Jo,
ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an
affectation of delight as they went in.
"May they haf oranges and figs?"
asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.
"They eat them when they can get
them."
"Do you care for nuts?"
"Like a squirrel."
"Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to
the Fatherland in those?"
Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance,
and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of
almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced
his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot
of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a
demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the
flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again.
"Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask
of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.
"Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to
beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it.
"I am bold to say it in spite of the
rain, because so short a time remains to me."
"Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed
the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it.
"I wish to get a little dress for my
Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste
and help?"
"Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and
cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator.
"Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother,
she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick,
warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother."
"I'll do it with pleasure, Mr.
Bhaer." "I'm going very fast, and he's getting dearer every
minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental shake she entered into
the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold.
Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a
pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a
married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be
shopping for their family.
"Your lady may prefer this. It's a
superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he
said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's
shoulders.
"Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?"
she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance
of hiding her face.
"Excellently well, we will haf it,"
answered the Professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo
continued to rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
"Now shall we go home?" he asked,
as if the words were very pleasant to him.
"Yes, it's late, and I'm so
tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed
to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and
miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold,
her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain
than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend,
it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in
her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the
daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.
"This is not our omniboos," said
the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor
little flowers.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't see the
name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud,"
returned Jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe
her eyes.
Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though
she turned her head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly
stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's
dearest, why do you cry?"
Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of
thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told
any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that
undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are
going away."
"Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!"
cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the
bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you
could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a
friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he
added, all in one breath.
"Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was
quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him
with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through
life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella,
if he carried it.
It was certainly proposing under
difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down
upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand,
except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender
remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only way in
which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which
glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little
rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very
much, I don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely,
with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle,
and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful
woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than ever, though
his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his
shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his
gloves needed mending.
Passers-by probably thought them a pair of
harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled
leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what
anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but
once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on
the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.
The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had
nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him,
feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could
have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak—intelligibly,
I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh,
yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character.
"Friedrich, why didn't you..."
"Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that
no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle
to regard her with grateful delight.
"I always call you so to myself—I
forgot, but I won't unless you like it."
"Like it? It is more sweet to me than I
can tell. Say 'thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as
beautiful as mine."
"Isn't 'thou' a little
sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.
"Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we
Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English
'you' is so cold, say 'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me,"
pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
"Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all
this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully.
"Now I shall haf to show thee all my
heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See,
then, my Jo—ah, the dear, funny little name—I had a wish to tell something the
day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed
to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had
spoken?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I
didn't have any heart just then."
"Prut! That I do not believe. It was
asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well,
'Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect."
"Yes, the first love is the best, but be
so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over
his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake.
"Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be
sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou
wilt find, Professorin."
"I like that," cried Jo, delighted
with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I
wanted you?"
"This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little
worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.
Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for
it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which
accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.
"How could that bring you?" she
asked, wondering what he meant.
"I found it by chance. I knew it by the
names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to
call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet."
IN THE GARRET
Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
All fashioned and filled, long ago,
By children now in their prime.
Four little keys hung side by side,
With faded ribbons, brave and gay
When fastened there, with childish pride,
Long ago, on a rainy day.
Four little names, one on each lid,
Carved out by a boyish hand,
And underneath there lieth hid
Histories of the happy band
Once playing here, and pausing oft
To hear the sweet refrain,
That came and went on the roof aloft,
In the falling summer rain.
"Meg" on the first lid,
smooth and fair.
I look in with loving eyes,
For folded here, with well-known care,
A goodly gathering lies,
The record of a peaceful life—
Gifts to gentle child and girl,
A bridal gown, lines to a wife,
A tiny shoe, a baby curl.
No toys in this first chest remain,
For all are carried away,
In their old age, to join again
In another small Meg's play.
Ah, happy mother! Well I know
You hear, like a sweet refrain,
Lullabies ever soft and low
In the falling summer rain.
"Jo" on the next lid,
scratched and worn,
And within a motley store
Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,
Birds and beasts that speak no more,
Spoils brought home from the fairy ground
Only trod by youthful feet,
Dreams of a future never found,
Memories of a past still sweet,
Half-writ poems, stories wild,
April letters, warm and cold,
Diaries of a wilful child,
Hints of a woman early old,
A woman in a lonely home,
Hearing, like a sad refrain—
"Be worthy, love, and love will come,"
In the falling summer rain.
My Beth! the dust is always swept
From the lid that bears your name,
As if by loving eyes that wept,
By careful hands that often came.
Death canonized for us one saint,
Ever less human than divine,
And still we lay, with tender plaint,
Relics in this household shrine—
The silver bell, so seldom rung,
The little cap which last she wore,
The fair, dead Catherine that hung
By angels borne above her door.
The songs she sang, without lament,
In her prison-house of pain,
Forever are they sweetly blent
With the falling summer rain.
Upon the last lid's polished
field—
Legend now both fair and true
A gallant knight bears on his shield,
"Amy" in letters gold and blue.
Within lie snoods that bound her hair,
Slippers that have danced their last,
Faded flowers laid by with care,
Fans whose airy toils are past,
Gay valentines, all ardent flames,
Trifles that have borne their part
In girlish hopes and fears and shames,
The record of a maiden heart
Now learning fairer, truer spells,
Hearing, like a blithe refrain,
The silver sound of bridal bells
In the falling summer rain.
Four little chests all in a row,
Dim with dust, and worn by time,
Four women, taught by weal and woe
To love and labor in their prime.
Four sisters, parted for an hour,
None lost, one only gone before,
Made by love's immortal power,
Nearest and dearest evermore.
Oh, when these hidden stores of ours
Lie open to the Father's sight,
May they be rich in golden hours,
Deeds that show fairer for the light,
Lives whose brave music long shall ring,
Like a spirit-stirring strain,
Souls that shall gladly soar and sing
In the long sunshine after rain.
"It's very bad poetry, but I felt it
when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag
bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo,
tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.
"Let it go, it has done its duty, and I
will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her
little secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments
fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that,
and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort
in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If
this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it
in Gott's name?'"
"And so you came to find that it was not
too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispered Jo.
"I had no courage to think that at
first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and
then I said, 'I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr.
Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were
barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to
be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in
gorgeous array.
"What made you stay away so long?"
she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and
get delightful answers that she could not keep silent.
"It was not easy, but I could not find
the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of
one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to
gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little
learning?"
"I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear
a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't
fear poverty. I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working
for those I love, and don't call yourself old—forty is the prime of life. I
couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"
The Professor found that so touching that he
would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he
couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a
bundle or two...
"I may be strong-minded, but no one can
say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be
drying tears and bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to
earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added
resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.
"We shall see. Haf you patience to wait
a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys
first, because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif
that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"
"Yes, I know I can, for we love one
another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my
work. I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no
need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here,
and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
wills."
"Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and
courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty
hands," cried the Professor, quite overcome.
Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for
when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into
his, whispering tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down, kissed
her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it
if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for
she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own
happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning
moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and
loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them,
with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.
To be concluded
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