第 三十五 章 · HEARTACHE

. 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, 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’ 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 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, 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 lover-like.

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 impetuousity, 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 the 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 buttercups 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 know 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 the 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, “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 emphasize his passionate words.

“What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more

unmanagable 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 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 it harder. I don’t believe

you’ve got any heart.”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and thinking it a good omen,

Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he

said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously

wheedlesome before, “Don’t disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it.

Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can’t get

on without you. Say you will, and let’s be happy. Do, do!”

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength

of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided

that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do,

but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

“I can’t say ‘yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at all. You’ll see that I’m

right, by-and-by, and thank me for it...” she began solemnly.

“I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning

with indignation at the very idea.

“Yes, you will!” persisted Jo. “You’ll get over this after a while, and

find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine

mistress for your fine house. I shouldn’t. I’m homely and awkward and

odd and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel—we can’t

help it even now, you see—and I shouldn’t like elegant society and you

would, and you’d hate my scribbling, and I couldn’t get on without it,

and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn’t done it, and everything

would be horrid!”

“Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to

this prophetic burst.

“Nothing more, except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry. I’m

happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it

up for any mortal man.”

“I know better!” broke in Laurie. “You think so now, but there’ll come

a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll love him

tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it’s your way,

and I shall have to stand by and see it,” and the despairing lover cast

his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical,

if his face had not been so tragic.

“Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love

him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!” cried Jo,

losing patience with poor Teddy. “I’ve done my best, but you won’t be

reasonable, and it’s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can’t

give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but

I’ll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both

of us—so now!”

That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he

did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away,

saying in a desperate sort of tone, “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”

“Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for his face frightened her.

“To the devil!” was the consoling answer.

For a minute Jo’s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank

toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a

young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort

who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a

melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and

coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time

up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and

unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip

the trouble which he carried in his heart.

“That will do him good, and he’ll come home in such a tender, penitent

state of mind, that I shan’t dare to see him,” she said, adding, as she

went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing,

and buried it under the leaves. “Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence

to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he’d love Beth, perhaps he may

in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How

can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it’s dreadful.”

Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went

straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then

broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind

old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He

found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie,

and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo

that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to

carry his boy out of harm’s way, for Young Impetuosity’s parting words

to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather

met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very

successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the

twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the

old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to

listen to praises of the last year’s success, which to him now seemed

like love’s labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to

his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in

the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister,

for he played the ‘_Sonata Pathetique_’, and played it as he never did

before.

“That’s very fine, I dare say, but it’s sad enough to make one cry.

Give us something gayer, lad,” said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart

was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.

Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several

minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull

Mrs. March’s voice had not been heard calling, “Jo, dear, come in. I

want you.”

Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he

listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and

the musician sat silent in the dark.

“I can’t stand this,” muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his

way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders,

and said, as gently as a woman, “I know, my boy, I know.”

No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, “Who told you?”

“Jo herself.”

“Then there’s an end of it!” And he shook off his grandfather’s hands

with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his

man’s pride could not bear a man’s pity.

“Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of

it,” returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. “You won’t care to

stay at home now, perhaps?”

“I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my seeing

her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted Laurie

in a defiant tone.

“Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but the

girl can’t help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away

for a time. Where will you go?”

“Anywhere. I don’t care what becomes of me,” and Laurie got up with a

reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather’s ear.

“Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s sake. Why

not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?”

“I can’t.”

“But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got

through college.”

“Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast through the

room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.

“I don’t ask you to go alone. There’s someone ready and glad to go with

you, anywhere in the world.”

“Who, Sir?” stopping to listen.

“Myself.”

Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying

huskily, “I’m a selfish brute, but—you know—Grandfather—”

“Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before,

once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy,

just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be

carried out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man,

as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before

him.

“Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down, without a sign of

interest in face or voice.

“There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you

should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here

will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost

everything, I’m merely holding on until you take my place, and can be

off at any time.”

“But you hate traveling, Sir. I can’t ask it of you at your age,” began

Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go

alone, if he went at all.

The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to

prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him

that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling

a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave

behind him, he said stoutly, “Bless your soul, I’m not superannuated

yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won’t

suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a

chair.”

A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy,

or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, “I

don’t mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you’d feel

happier than if I was left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with

you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in

my own way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit

them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you

will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your

heart’s content.”

Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the

world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the

old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken

heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly

appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a

spiritless tone, “Just as you like, Sir. It doesn’t matter where I go

or what I do.”

“It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I

trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.”

“Anything you like, Sir.”

“Good,” thought the old gentleman. “You don’t care now, but there’ll

come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I’m

much mistaken.”

Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was

hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel,

they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore

himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody,

irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress

and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided

Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a

tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a

heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of

his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to

attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a

relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very

uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the ‘poor, dear fellow was

going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy’. Of course, he

smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad

superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was

unalterable.

When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain

inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This

gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did

for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with

a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going

very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the

afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a

minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look

round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above

him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal

eloquent and pathetic.

“Oh, Jo, can’t you?”

“Teddy, dear, I wish I could!”

That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself

up, said, “It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another

word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly

head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she

had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look

behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.