Bab Bab 8 · JO MEETS APOLLYON

. JO MEETS APOLLYON

“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one

Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an

air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

“Never mind. Little girls shouldn’t ask questions,” returned Jo

sharply.

Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young,

it is to be told that, and to be bidden to “run away, dear” is still

more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to

find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who

never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, “Do tell me!

I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her

piano, and I haven’t got anything to do, and am so lonely.”

“I can’t, dear, because you aren’t invited,” began Meg, but Jo broke in

impatiently, “Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can’t

go, Amy, so don’t be a baby and whine about it.”

“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were

whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you

stopped when I came in. Aren’t you going with him?”

“Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering.”

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her

pocket.

“I know! I know! You’re going to the theater to see the _Seven

Castles!_” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for Mother

said I might see it, and I’ve got my rag money, and it was mean not to

tell me in time.”

“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly.

“Mother doesn’t wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not

well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you

can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”

“I don’t like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please

let me. I’ve been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I’m dying

for some fun. Do, Meg! I’ll be ever so good,” pleaded Amy, looking as

pathetic as she could.

“Suppose we take her. I don’t believe Mother would mind, if we bundle

her up well,” began Meg.

“If she goes I shan’t, and if I don’t, Laurie won’t like it, and it

will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I

should think she’d hate to poke herself where she isn’t wanted,” said

Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child

when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,

in her most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay

for myself, Laurie hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“You can’t sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn’t sit

alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our

pleasure. Or he’ll get another seat for you, and that isn’t proper when

you weren’t asked. You shan’t stir a step, so you may just stay where

you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger

in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to

reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls

hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot

her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was

setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone,

“You’ll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain’t.”

“Fiddlesticks!” returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_

was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the

comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and

princesses, Jo’s pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy

queen’s yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she

amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her

‘sorry for it’. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the

course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be

violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and

semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed

afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had

hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually

getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having

humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do

better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a

fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately

to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat

her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed

an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or

asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered

resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing

description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo’s

first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had

soothed her feelings by turning Jo’s top drawer upside down on the

floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance

into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had

forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced

a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the

afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding

breathlessly, “Has anyone taken my book?”

Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the

fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a

minute.

“Amy, you’ve got it!”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You know where it is, then!”

“No, I don’t.”

“That’s a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking

fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

“It isn’t. I haven’t got it, don’t know where it is now, and don’t

care.”

“You know something about it, and you’d better tell at once, or I’ll

make you.” And Jo gave her a slight shake.

“Scold as much as you like, you’ll never see your silly old book

again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to

finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo,

turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy

nervously.

“Yes, I did! I told you I’d make you pay for being so cross yesterday,

and I have, so...”

Amy got no farther, for Jo’s hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy

till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and

anger...

“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I’ll never

forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside

herself, and with a parting box on her sister’s ear, she rushed out of

the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight

alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard

the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her

sister. Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her

family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen

little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her

whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to

print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the

old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of

several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a

dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.

Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her

pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one

would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now

regretted more than any of them.

When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable

that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly...

“Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.”

“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that

moment she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had

learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,

and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own

generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was

not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother

read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and

the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing

time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy

broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts

to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as

well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My

dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,

help each other, and begin again tomorrow.”

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her

grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she

felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So

she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was

listening, “It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be

forgiven.”

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or

confidential gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,

and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured

than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which

was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,

and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she

dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack

of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful

when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were

always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other

people set them a virtuous example.

“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always

kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself,

and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient

exclamation.

“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we

shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”

“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the

loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and

I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go

after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with

Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind

thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.”

“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to

get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over

the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached

them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for

he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm

spell had preceded the cold snap.

“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right before we

begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a

young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on

her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and

went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of

satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till

it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and

feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,

he shouted back...

“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy

was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over

her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...

“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.”

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,

far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the

river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart,

then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,

just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden

crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s

heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice

was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no

strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,

staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the

black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice cried

out...

“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked

as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,

and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged

a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more

frightened than hurt.

“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on

her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping

his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed

so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an

exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot

fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking

pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands

cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was

comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,

she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the

golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever

under the treacherous ice.

“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think,

you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied

her mother cheerfully.

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it

would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of

penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her

hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the

heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it

breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I

do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is

impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy

head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo

cried even harder.

“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could

do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone

and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and

spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help

me!”

“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this

day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another

like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than

yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think

your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like

it.”

“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo forgot

remorse in surprise.

“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded

in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I

have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,

though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a

better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She

felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The

knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,

made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,

though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a

girl of fifteen.

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go

out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?”

asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and

when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away

for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and

wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed

and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the

sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say

the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say

dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me...”

“As you do us...” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years

had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to

anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears

over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.

Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be

good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we

were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by

nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”

“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”

“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,

but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed

to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me

that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little

girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your

sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you

when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,

and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest

reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them

copy.”

“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”

cried Jo, much touched.

“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch

over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not

spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with

heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you

greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.”

“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and

keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger

on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you

always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you

then?” asked Jo softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me

from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look.”

Jo saw that her mother’s eyes filled and her lips trembled as she

spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,

“Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn’t mean to be

rude, but it’s so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so

safe and happy here.”

“My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest

happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how

much I love them.”

“I thought I’d grieved you.”

“No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how

much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his

little daughters safe and good for him.”

“Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn’t cry when he went, and never

complain now, or seem as if you needed any help,” said Jo, wondering.

“I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was

gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and

will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don’t seem to need

help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to

comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your

life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive

them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your

Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love

and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will

depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or

change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of

lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go

to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as

freely and confidingly as you come to your mother.”

Jo’s only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which

followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart

without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only

the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial

and self-control, and led by her mother’s hand, she had drawn nearer to

the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than

that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once

to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it

had never worn before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn’t forgive her, and today,

if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I

be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister

softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a

smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they

hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was

forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.