Chương Chương 32 · TENDER TROUBLES

. TENDER TROUBLES

“Jo, I’m anxious about Beth.”

“Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came.”

“It’s not her health that troubles me now, it’s her spirits. I’m sure

there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is.”

“What makes you think so, Mother?”

“She sits alone a good deal, and doesn’t talk to her father as much as

she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she

sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in

her face that I don’t understand. This isn’t like Beth, and it worries

me.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

“I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or

looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children’s

confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long.”

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed

quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth’s, and after

sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, “I think she is growing up,

and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets,

without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth’s

eighteen, but we don’t realize it, and treat her like a child,

forgetting she’s a woman.”

“So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up,” returned her mother

with a sigh and a smile.

“Can’t be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of

worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise

never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you.”

“It’s a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home,

now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon,

but when the tug comes, you are always ready.”

“Why, you know I don’t mind hard jobs much, and there must always be

one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I’m not, but I

feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the

family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if

anything is amiss at home, I’m your man.”

“I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little

heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don’t let

her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get

quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn’t have a wish in the world.”

“Happy woman! I’ve got heaps.”

“My dear, what are they?”

“I’ll settle Bethy’s troubles, and then I’ll tell you mine. They are

not very wearing, so they’ll keep.” and Jo stitched away, with a wise

nod which set her mother’s heart at rest about her for the present at

least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and

after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which

seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue

to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the

rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when

she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her

eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window,

Beth’s work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon

her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull,

autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an

operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, “All serene! Coming in

tonight.”

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by

till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, “How

strong and well and happy that dear boy looks.”

“Hum!” said Jo, still intent upon her sister’s face, for the bright

color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a

tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her

half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.

Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about

needing more paper.

“Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!” she said, sitting down in her own

room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had

just made. “I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I

wonder if her...” there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden

thought. “If he shouldn’t love back again, how dreadful it would be. He

must. I’ll make him!” and she shook her head threateningly at the

picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.

“Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here’s Meg married and a

mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I’m the only

one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief.” Jo thought intently

for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out

her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face

opposite, “No thank you, sir, you’re very charming, but you’ve no more

stability than a weathercock. So you needn’t write touching notes and

smile in that insinuating way, for it won’t do a bit of good, and I

won’t have it.”

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake

till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which

only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked

with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,

but so was everybody’s. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he

cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression

had prevailed in the family of late that ‘our boy’ was getting fonder

than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn’t hear a word upon the subject

and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known

the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they

would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” But

Jo hated ‘philandering’, and wouldn’t allow it, always having a joke or

a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month,

but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much

amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope,

despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly

conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at

many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged

occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender

subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,

and gave out that he was going to ‘dig’, intending to graduate in a

blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight

confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the

eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred

imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former

could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter

were less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo

watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not

got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in

the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But

having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at

a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course

of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on

the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all

sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly ‘spin’, and he never

disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth’s eyes rested

on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that

she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting

cricket match, though the phrases, ‘caught off a tice’, ‘stumped off

his ground’, and ‘the leg hit for three’, were as intelligible to her

as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it,

that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie’s manner, that

he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a

little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth’s feet with an

assiduity that was really almost tender.

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened,” thought Jo, as she fussed

about the room. “She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make

life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love

each other. I don’t see how he can help it, and I do believe he would

if the rest of us were out of the way.”

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she

ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?

And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she

sat down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa—long, broad,

well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the

girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back,

rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested

tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young

women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner

had always been Jo’s favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows

that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with

prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This

repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of

defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep

aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when

romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he

most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If ‘the sausage’ as they

called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and

repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child

who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner,

and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form

appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both

long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of

satisfaction...

“Now, this is filling at the price.”

“No slang,” snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,

there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared

in a most mysterious manner.

“Come, Jo, don’t be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all

the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it.”

“Beth will pet you. I’m busy.”

“No, she’s not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing,

unless you’ve suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate

your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?”

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,

but Jo quenched ‘her boy’ by turning on him with a stern query, “How

many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?”

“Not one, upon my word. She’s engaged. Now then.”

“I’m glad of it, that’s one of your foolish extravagances, sending

flowers and things to girls for whom you don’t care two pins,”

continued Jo reprovingly.

“Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won’t let me

send them ‘flowers and things’, so what can I do? My feelings need a

‘vent’.”

“Mother doesn’t approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt

desperately, Teddy.”

“I’d give anything if I could answer, ‘So do you’. As I can’t, I’ll

merely say that I don’t see any harm in that pleasant little game, if

all parties understand that it’s only play.”

“Well, it does look pleasant, but I can’t learn how it’s done. I’ve

tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else

is doing, but I don’t seem to get on”, said Jo, forgetting to play

mentor.

“Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it.”

“Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I

suppose it’s natural to some people to please without trying, and

others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place.”

“I’m glad you can’t flirt. It’s really refreshing to see a sensible,

straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool

of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do

go on at such a rate I’m ashamed of them. They don’t mean any harm, I’m

sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward,

they’d mend their ways, I fancy.”

“They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows

get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you

behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they

keep it up, and then you blame them.”

“Much you know about it, ma’am,” said Laurie in a superior tone. “We

don’t like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.

The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,

among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place

for a month you’d see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my

word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say

with our friend Cock Robin...

“Out upon you, fie upon you,

Bold-faced jig!”

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between

Laurie’s chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very

natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society

showed him many samples. Jo knew that ‘young Laurence’ was regarded as

a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their

daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb

of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be

spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still

believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone,

she said, dropping her voice, “If you must have a ‘vent’, Teddy, go and

devote yourself to one of the ‘pretty, modest girls’ whom you do

respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones.”

“You really advise it?” and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of

anxiety and merriment in his face.

“Yes, I do, but you’d better wait till you are through college, on the

whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You’re not half

good enough for—well, whoever the modest girl may be.” and Jo looked a

little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

“That I’m not!” acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite

new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo’s apron tassel

round his finger.

“Mercy on us, this will never do,” thought Jo, adding aloud, “Go and

sing to me. I’m dying for some music, and always like yours.”

“I’d rather stay here, thank you.”

“Well, you can’t, there isn’t room. Go and make yourself useful, since

you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a

woman’s apron string?” retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of

his own.

“Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!” and Laurie gave an audacious

tweak at the tassel.

“Are you going?” demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well, “Up with the bonnets of

bonnie Dundee,” she slipped away to return no more till the young

gentleman departed in high dudgeon.

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound

of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth’s bedside, with the anxious

inquiry, “What is it, dear?”

“I thought you were asleep,” sobbed Beth.

“Is it the old pain, my precious?”

“No, it’s a new one, but I can bear it,” and Beth tried to check her

tears.

“Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other.”

“You can’t, there is no cure.” There Beth’s voice gave way, and

clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was

frightened.

“Where is it? Shall I call Mother?”

“No, no, don’t call her, don’t tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie

down here and ‘poor’ my head. I’ll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I

will.”

Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth’s hot

forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to

speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,

cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she

believed she knew the cause of Beth’s new pain, she only said, in her

tenderest tone, “Does anything trouble you, deary?”

“Yes, Jo,” after a long pause.

“Wouldn’t it comfort you to tell me what it is?”

“Not now, not yet.”

“Then I won’t ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always

glad to hear and help you, if they can.”

“I know it. I’ll tell you by-and-by.”

“Is the pain better now?”

“Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo.”

“Go to sleep, dear. I’ll stay with you.”

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite

herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and

a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for

some days, she confided it to her mother.

“You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I’ll tell you one of

them, Marmee,” she began, as they sat along together. “I want to go

away somewhere this winter for a change.”

“Why, Jo?” and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested

a double meaning.

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, “I want something new. I

feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I

am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up,

so as I can be spared this winter, I’d like to hop a little way and try

my wings.”

“Where will you hop?”

“To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know

Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her

children and sew. It’s rather hard to find just the thing, but I think

I should suit if I tried.”

“My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!” and Mrs.

March looked surprised, but not displeased.

“It’s not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your

friend—the kindest soul that ever lived—and would make things pleasant

for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows

me there. Don’t care if they do. It’s honest work, and I’m not ashamed

of it.”

“Nor I. But your writing?”

“All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get

new ideas, and even if I haven’t much time there, I shall bring home

quantities of material for my rubbish.”

“I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden

fancy?”

“No, Mother.”

“May I know the others?”

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in

her cheeks. “It may be vain and wrong to say it, but—I’m afraid—Laurie

is getting too fond of me.”

“Then you don’t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care

for you?” and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

“Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely

proud of him, but as for anything more, it’s out of the question.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo.”

“Why, please?”

“Because, dear, I don’t think you suited to one another. As friends you

are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear

you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike

and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills,

to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience

and forbearance, as well as love.”

“That’s just the feeling I had, though I couldn’t express it. I’m glad

you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me

sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn’t fall in love with the dear

old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?”

“You are sure of his feeling for you?”

The color deepened in Jo’s cheeks as she answered, with the look of

mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking

of first lovers, “I’m afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn’t said anything,

but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes

to anything.”

“I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go.”

Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, “How Mrs. Moffat

would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will

rejoice that Annie may still hope.”

“Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the

same in all—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am

content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you

tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something

sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.

For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way,

she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?’

“Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I

said no more, for I think I know it,” and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the

case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie’s sake

Jo should go away for a time.

“Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I’ll

run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think

I’m going to please myself, as I am, for I can’t talk about Laurie to

her. But she can pet and comfort him after I’m gone, and so cure him of

this romantic notion. He’s been through so many little trials of the

sort, he’s used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity.”

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear

that this ‘little trial’ would be harder than the others, and that

Laurie would not get over his ‘lovelornity’ as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs.

Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.

The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got

might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society

would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager

to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless

nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and

trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly.

He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when

jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, “So I

am, and I mean this one shall stay turned.”

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on

just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth

seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.

“One thing I leave in your especial care,” she said, the night before

she left.

“You mean your papers?” asked Beth.

“No, my boy. Be very good to him, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, but I can’t fill your place, and he’ll miss you

sadly.”

“It won’t hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,

pet, and keep in order.”

“I’ll do my best, for your sake,” promised Beth, wondering why Jo

looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, “It won’t do a

bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I’ll come

and bring you home.”