Jo's Boys

by Louisa May Alcott

  Mrs Jo turned short round, and putting a hand on either broad shoulder, looked him in the eye, saying soberly:

  “Now, Dan, see here; never sneer at good things or pretend to be worse than you are. Don’t let false shame make you neglect the religion without which no man can live. You needn’t talk about it if you don’t like, but don’t shut your heart to it in whatever shape it comes. Nature is your God now; she has done much for you; let her do more, and lead you to know and love a wiser and more tender teacher, friend, and comforter than she can ever be. That is your only hope; don’t throw it away, and waste time; for sooner or later you will feel the need of Him, and He will come to you and hold you up when all other help fails.”

  Dan stood motionless, and let her read in his softened eyes the dumb desire that lived in his heart, though he had no words to tell it, and only permitted her to catch a glimpse of the divine spark which smoulders or burns clearly in every human soul. He did not speak; and glad to be spared some answer which should belie his real feelings, Mrs Jo hastened to say, with her most motherly smile:

  “I saw in your room the little Bible I gave you long ago; it was well worn outside, but fresh within, as if not much read. Will you promise me to read a little once a week, dear, for my sake? Sunday is a quiet day everywhere, and this book is never old nor out of place. Begin with the stories you used to love when I told them to you boys. David was your favourite, you remember? Read him again; he’ll suit you even better now, and you’ll find his sins and repentance useful reading till you come to the life and work of a diviner example than he. You will do it, for love of mother Bhaer, who always loved her ‘fire-brand’ and hoped to save him?”

  “I will,” answered Dan, with a sudden brightening of face that was like a sunburst through a cloud, full of promise though so short-lived and rare.

  Mrs Jo turned at once to the books and began to talk of them, knowing well that Dan would not hear any more just then. He seemed relieved; for it was always hard for him to show his inner self, and he took pride in hiding it as an Indian does in concealing pain or fear.

  “Hallo, here’s old Sintram! I remember him; used to like him and his tantrums, and read about ’em to Ted. There he is riding ahead with Death and the Devil alongside.”

  As Dan looked at the little picture of the young man with horse and hound going bravely up the rocky defile, accompanied by the companions who ride beside most men through this world, a curious impulse made Mrs Jo say quickly:

  “That’s you, Dan, just you at this time! Danger and sin are near you in the life you lead; moods and passions torment you; the bad father left you to fight alone, and the wild spirit drives you to wander up and down the world looking for peace and self-control. Even the horse and hound are there, your Octoo and Don, faithful friends, un-scared by the strange mates that go with you. You have not got the armour yet, but I’m trying to show you where to find it. Remember the mother Sintram loved and longed to find, and did find when his battle was bravely fought, his reward well earned? You can recollect your mother; and I have always felt that all the good qualities you possess come from her. Act out the beautiful old story in this as in the other parts, and try to give her back a son to be proud of.”

  Quite carried away by the likeness of the quaint tale to Dan’s life and needs, Mrs Jo went on pointing to the various pictures which illustrated it, and when she looked up was surprised to see how struck and interested he seemed to be. Like all people of his temperament he was very impressionable, and his life among hunters and Indians had made him superstitious; he believed in dreams, liked weird tales, and whatever appealed to the eye or mind, vividly impressed him more than the wisest words. The story of poor, tormented Sintram came back clearly as he looked and listened, symbolizing his secret trials even more truly than Mrs Jo knew; and just at that moment this had an effect upon him that never was forgotten. But all he said was:

  “Small chance of that. I don’t take much stock in the idea of meeting folks in heaven. Guess mother won’t remember the poor little brat she left so long ago; why should she?”

  “Because true mothers never forget their children; and I know she was one, from the fact that she ran away from the cruel husband, to save her little son from bad influences. Had she lived, life would have been happier for you, with this tender friend to help and comfort you. Never forget that she risked everything for your sake, and don’t let it be in vain.”

  Mrs Jo spoke very earnestly, knowing that this was the one sweet memory of Dan’s early life, and glad to have recalled it at this moment; for suddenly a great tear splashed down on the page where Sintram kneels at his mother’s feet, wounded, but victorious over sin and death. She looked up, well pleased to have touched Dan to the heart’s core, as that drop proved; but a sweep of the arm brushed away the telltale, and his beard hid the mate to it, as he shut the book, saying with a suppressed quiver in his strong voice:

  “I’ll keep this, if nobody wants it. I’ll read it over, and maybe it will do me good. I’d like to meet her anywhere, but don’t believe I ever shall.”

  “Keep it and welcome. My mother gave it to me; and when you read it try to believe that neither of your mothers will ever forget you.”

  Mrs Jo gave the book with a caress; and simply saying: “Thanks; good night,” Dan thrust it into his pocket, and walked straight away to the river to recover from this un-wonted mood of tenderness and confidence.

  Next day the travellers were off. All were in good spirits, and a cloud of handkerchiefs whitened the air as they drove away in the old bus, waving their hats to everyone and kissing their hands, especially to Mother Bhaer, who said in her prophetic tone as she wiped her eyes, when the familiar rumble died away:

  “I have a feeling that something is going to happen to some of them, and they will never come back to me, or come back changed. Well, I can only say, God be with my boys!”

  And He was.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE LION AND THE LAMB

  WHEN THE boys were gone a lull fell upon Plumfield, and the family scattered to various places for brief outings, as August had come and all felt the need of change. The Professor took Mrs Jo to the mountains. The Laurences were at the seashore, and there Meg’s family and the Bhaer boys took turns to visit, as someone must always be at home to keep things in order.

  Mrs Meg, with Daisy, was in office when the events occurred which we are about to relate. Rob and Ted were just up from Rocky Nook, and Nan was passing a week with her friend as the only relaxation she allowed herself. Demi was off on a run with Tom, so Rob was man of the house, with old Silas as general overseer. The sea air seemed to have gone to Ted’s head, for he was unusually freakish, and led his gentle aunt and poor Rob a life of it with his pranks. Octoo was worn out with the wild rides he took, and Don openly rebelled when ordered to leap and show off his accomplishments; while the girls at college were both amused and worried by the ghosts who haunted the grounds at night, the unearthly melodies that disturbed their studious hours, and the hairbreadth escapes of this restless boy by flood and field and fire. Something happened at length which effectually sobered Ted and made a lasting impression on both the boys; for sudden danger and a haunting fear turned the Lion into a lamb and the Lamb into a lion, as far as courage went.

  On the first of September—the boys never forgot the date—after a pleasant tramp and good luck with their fishing, the brothers were lounging in the barn; for Daisy had company, and the lads kept out of the way.

  “I tell you what it is, Bobby, that dog is sick. He won’t play, nor eat, nor drink, and acts queerly. Dan will kill us if anything happens to him,” said Ted, looking at Don, who lay near his kennel resting a moment after one of the restless wanderings which kept him vibrating between the door of Dan’s room and the shady corner of the yard, where his master had settled him with an old cap to guard till he came back.

  “It’s the hot weather, perhaps. But I sometimes think he’s pining for Dan. Dogs do, you know, and
the poor fellow has been low in his mind ever since the boys went. Maybe something has happened to Dan. Don howled last night and can’t rest. I’ve heard of such things,” answered Rob thoughtfully.

  “Pooh! he can’t know. He’s cross. I’ll stir him up and take him for a run. Always makes me feel better. Hi, boy! wake up and be jolly” and Ted snapped his fingers at the dog, who only looked at him with grim indifference.

  “Better let him alone. If he isn’t right tomorrow, we’ll take him to Dr Watkins and see what he says.” And Rob went on watching the swallows as he lay in the hay polishing up some Latin verses he had made.

  The spirit of perversity entered into Ted, and merely because he was told not to tease Don he went on doing it, pretending that it was for the dog’s good. Don took no heed of his pats, commands, reproaches, or insults, till Ted’s patience gave out; and seeing a convenient switch near by he could not resist the temptation to conquer the great hound by force, since gentleness failed to win obedience. He had the wisdom to chain Don up first; for a blow from any hand but his master’s made him savage, and Ted had more than once tried the experiment, as the dog remembered. This indignity roused Don and he sat up with a growl. Rob heard it, and seeing Ted raise the switch, ran to interfere, exclaiming:

  “Don’t touch him! Dan forbade it! Leave the poor thing in peace; I won’t allow it.”

  Rob seldom commanded, but when he did Master Ted had to give in. His temper was up, and Rob’s masterful tone made it impossible to resist one cut at the rebellious dog before he submitted. Only a single blow, but it was a costly one; for as it fell, the dog sprang at Ted with a snarl, and Rob, rushing between the two, felt the sharp teeth pierce his leg. A word made Don let go and drop remorsefully at Rob’s feet, for he loved him and was evidently sorry to have hurt his friend by mistake. With a forgiving pat Rob left him, to limp to the barn followed by Ted, whose wrath was changed to shame and sorrow when he saw the red drops on Rob’s sock and the little wounds in his leg.

  “I’m awfully sorry. Why did you get in the way? Here, wash it up, and I’ll get a rag to tie on it,” he said quickly filling a sponge with water and pulling out a very demoralized handkerchief.

  Rob usually made light of his own mishaps and was ever ready to forgive if others were to blame; but now he sat quite still, looking at the purple marks with such a strange expression on his white face that Ted was troubled, though he added with a laugh: “Why, you’re not afraid of a little dig like that, are you, Bobby?”

  “I am afraid of hydrophobia. But if Don is mad I’d rather be the one to have it,” answered Rob, with a smile and a shiver.

  At that dreadful word Ted turned whiter than his brother, and, dropping sponge and handkerchief, stared at him with a frightened face, whispering in a tone of despair:

  “Oh, Rob, don’t say it! What shall we do, what shall we do?”

  “Call Nan; she will know. Don’t scare Aunty, or tell a soul but Nan; she’s on the back piazza; get her out here as quick as you can. I’ll wash it till she comes. Maybe it’s nothing; don’t look so staggered, Ted. I only thought it might be, as Don is queer.”

  Rob tried to speak bravely; but Ted’s long legs felt strangely weak as he hurried away, and it was lucky he met no one, for his face would have betrayed him. Nan was swinging luxuriously in a hammock, amusing herself with a lively treatise on croup, when an agitated boy suddenly clutched her, whispering, as he nearly pulled her overboard:

  “Come to Rob in the barn! Don’s mad and he’s bitten him, and we don’t know what to do; it’s all my fault; no one must know. Oh, do be quick!”

  Nan was on her feet at once, startled, but with her wits about her, and both were off without more words as they dodged round the house where unconscious Daisy chatted with her friends in the parlour and Aunt Meg peacefully took her afternoon nap upstairs.

  Rob was braced up, and was as calm and steady as ever when they found him in the harness-room, whither he had wisely retired, to escape observation. The story was soon told, and after a look at Don, now in his kennel, sad and surly, Nan said slowly, with her eye on the full water-pan:

  “Rob, there is one thing to do for the sake of safety, and it must be done at once. We can’t wait to see if Don is—sick—or to go for a doctor. I can do it, and I will; but it is very painful, and I hate to hurt you, dear.”

  A most unprofessional quiver got into Nan’s voice as she spoke, and her keen eyes dimmed as she looked at the two anxious young faces turned so confidingly to her for help.

  “I know, burn it; well, do it, please; I can bear it. But Ted better go away,” said Rob, with a firm setting of his lips, and a nod at his afflicted brother.

  “I won’t stir; I can stand it if he can, only it ought to be me!” cried Ted, with a desperate effort not to cry, so full of grief and fear and shame was he that it seemed as if he couldn’t bear it like a man.

  “He’d better stay and help; do him good,” answered Nan sternly, because her heart was faint within her, knowing as she did all that might be in store for both poor boys. “Keep quiet; I’ll be back in a minute,” she added, going towards the house, while her quick mind hastily planned what was best to be done.

  It was ironing day, and a hot fire still burned in the empty kitchen, for the maids were upstairs resting. Nan put a slender poker to heat, and as she sat waiting for it, covered her face with her hands, asking help in this sudden need—strength, courage, and wisdom; for there was no one else to call upon, and young as she was, she knew what was to be done if she only had the nerve to do it. Any other patient would have been calmly interesting, but dear, good Robin, his father’s pride, his mother’s comfort, everyone’s favourite and friend, that he should be in danger was very terrible; and a few hot tears dropped on the well-scoured table as Nan tried to calm her trouble by remembering how very likely it was to be all a mistake, a natural but vain alarm.

  “I must make light of it, or the boys will break down, and then there will be a panic. Why afflict and frighten everyone when all is in doubt? I won’t. I’ll take Rob to Dr Morrison at once, and have the dog man see Don. Then, having done all we can, we will either laugh at our scare—if it is one—or be ready for whatever comes. Now for my poor boy.”

  Armed with the red-hot poker, a pitcher of ice-water, and several handkerchiefs from the clothes-horse, Nan went back to the barn ready to do her best in this her most serious “emergency case”. The boys sat like statues, one of despair, the other of resignation; and it took all Nan’s boasted nerve to do her work quickly and well.

  “Now, Rob, only a minute, then we are safe. Stand by, Ted; he may be a bit faintish.”

  Rob shut his eyes, clinched his hands, and sat like a hero. Ted knelt beside him, white as a sheet, and as weak as a girl; for the pangs of remorse were rending him, and his heart failed at the thought of all this pain because of his wilfulness. It was all over in a moment, with only one little groan; but when Nan looked to her assistant to hand the water, poor Ted needed it the most, for he had fainted away, and lay on the floor in a pathetic heap of arms and legs.

  Rob laughed, and, cheered by that unexpected sound, Nan bound up the wound with hands that never trembled, though great drops stood on her forehead; and she shared the water with patient number one before she turned to patient number two. Ted was much ashamed, and quite broken in spirit, when he found how he had failed at the critical moment, and begged them not to tell, as he really could not help it; then by way of finishing his utter humiliation, a burst of hysterical tears disgraced his manly soul, and did him a world of good.

  “Never mind, never mind, we are all right now, and no one need be the wiser,” said Nan briskly, as poor Ted hiccoughed on Rob’s shoulder, laughing and crying in the most tempestuous manner, while his brother soothed him, and the young doctor fanned both with Silas’s old straw hat.

  “Now, boys, listen to me and remember what I say. We won’t alarm anyone yet, for I’ve made up my mind our scare is all nonsense. Don was out lapp
ing the water as I came by, and I don’t believe he’s mad any more than I am. Still, to ease our minds and compose our spirits, and get our guilty faces out of sight for a while, I think we had better drive into town to my old friend Dr Morrison, and let him just take a look at my work, and give us some quieting little dose; for we are all rather shaken by this flurry. Sit still, Rob; and Ted, you harness up while I run and get my hat and tell Aunty to excuse me to Daisy. I don’t know those Penniman girls, and she will be glad of our room at tea, and we’ll have a cosy bite at my house, and come home as gay as larks.”

  Nan talked on as a vent for the hidden emotions which professional pride would not allow her to show, and the boys approved her plan at once; for action is always easier than quiet waiting. Ted went staggering away to wash his face at the pump, and rub some colour into his cheeks before he harnessed the horse. Rob lay tranquilly on the hay, looking up at the swallows again as he lived through some very memorable moments. Boy as he was, the thought of death coming suddenly to him, and in this way, might well make him sober; for it is a very solemn thing to be arrested in the midst of busy life by the possibility of the great change. There were no sins to be repented of, few faults, and many happy, dutiful years to remember with infinite comfort. So Rob had no fears to daunt him, no regrets to sadden, and best of all, a very strong and simple piety to sustain and cheer him.

  “Mein Vater,” was his first thought; for Rob was very near the Professor’s heart, and the loss of his eldest would have been a bitter blow. These words, whispered with a tremble of the lips that had been so firm when the hot iron burned, recalled that other Father who is always near, always tender and helpful; and, folding his hands, Rob said the heartiest little prayer he ever prayed, there on the hay, to the soft twitter of the brooding birds. It did him good; and wisely laying all his fear and doubt and trouble in God’s hand, the boy felt ready for whatever was to come, and from that hour kept steadily before him the one duty that was plain—to be brave and cheerful, keep silent, and hope for the best.