“There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing.”
Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.
“I should like much to send all the rest after him,” muttered the Professor, coming back with a relieved air.
Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, “Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won’t be worried,” and taking up her book, she said, with a studious face, “Shall we go on, sir? I’ll be very good and proper now.”
“I shall hope so,” was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.
As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eyeglasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book; now she seemed to have got on the Professor’s mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.
“They are trash, and will soon be worse than trash if I go on, for each is more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of money. I know it’s so, for I can’t read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?”
Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
“Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I’d better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder,” she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
But when nothing remained of all her three months’ work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
“I think I haven’t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time,” she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, “I almost wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If I didn’t care about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing sometimes, that Father and Mother hadn’t been so particular about such things.”
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that “Father and Mother were particular,” and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in womanhood.
Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood [249] Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More,[250] and then produced a tale which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn’t sell.
Then she tried a child’s story, which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility –
“I don’t know anything; I’ll wait till I do before I try again, and, meantime, ‘sweep mud in the street,’ if I can’t do better; that’s honest, at least;” which decision proved that her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.
While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof; but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.
He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life.
It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came; the children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer’s hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.
“Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,” he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last evening.
She was going early, so she bade them all good-by overnight; and when his turn came, she said warmly, “Now, sir, you won’t forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I’ll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my friend.”
“Do you? Shall I come?” he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see.
“Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you’d enjoy Commencement as something new.”
“That is your best friend, of whom you speak?” he said in an altered tone.
“Yes, my boy Teddy. I’m very proud of him and should like you to see him.”
Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer’s face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a “best friend,” and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on her knee, she didn’t know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially –
“I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!” And with that, he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.
But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the tired look on his face and the “heimweh,” or homesickness, lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the litt
le child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not find.
“It is not for me, I must not hope it now,” he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan; then, as if reproaching himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato.
He did his best and did it manfully, but I don’t think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child and home.
Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off; and, thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and, best of all, the happy thought, “Well, the winter’s gone, and I’ve written no books, earned no fortune, but I’ve made a friend worth having and I’ll try to keep him all my life.”
35
Heartache
Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes,[251] so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather – oh, so proud! – Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.
“I’ve got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You’ll come and meet me as usual, girls?” Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said “girls,” but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly –
“I’ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing ‘Hail the conquering hero comes,’[252] on a jew‘s-harp.”
Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, “Oh, deary me! I know he’ll say something, and then what shall I do?”
Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn’t be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn’t do anything to make her hurt his poor little feelings. A call at Meg‘s, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete,[253] but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.
“Where’s the jew‘s-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
“I forgot it.” And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called loverlike.
She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, “Now you must have a good long holiday!”
“I intend to.”
Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, “No, Teddy, please don‘t!”
“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo, we’ve got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
“Say what you like, then. I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to “have it out,” if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady –
“I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo, couldn’t help it, you’ve been so good to me. I’ve tried to show it, but you wouldn’t let me; now I’m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can’t go on so any longer.”
“I wanted to save you this. I thought you’d understand – ” began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
“I know you did, but girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.
“I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could.”
“I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough – ” Here there was a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated but tercups while he cleared his “confounded throat.”
“You, you are, you’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t.”
“Really, truly, Jo?”
He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget.
“Really, truly, dear.”
They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.
“Oh, Teddy, I’m sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard. I can’t help it. You know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don‘t,” cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.
“They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post.
“I don’t believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not try it” was the decided answer.
There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,[254] “Laurie, I want to tell you something.”
He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, “Don’t tell me that, Jo, I can’t bear it now!”
“Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence.
“That you love that old man.”
“What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
“That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate.” And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.
Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she, too, was getting excited with all this, “Don’t swear, Teddy! He isn’t old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I’ve got, next to you. Pray, don’t fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven’t the least idea of loving him or anybody else.”
“But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?”
“You’ll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble.”
“I can’t love anyone else, and I’ll never forget you, Jo, never! never!” with a stamp to empha
size his passionate words.
“What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanageable than she expected. “You haven’t heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy,” she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love.
Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo’s part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake – how touching that was, to be sure! –
“I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to – ” Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.
“Marry – no, we shouldn‘t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like.”
“No, I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed, and I won’t risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don’t agree and we never shall, so we’ll be good friends all our lives, but we won’t go and do anything rash.”
“Yes, we will if we get the chance,” muttered Laurie rebelliously.
“Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,” implored Jo, almost at her wit’s end.
“I won’t be reasonable, I don’t want to take what you call ‘a sensible view,’ it won’t help me, and it only makes you harder. I don’t believe you’ve got any heart.”
Little Women Page 44