第 四十二 章 · ALL ALONE

. ALL ALONE

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in

another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when

the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved

presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo

found her promise very hard to keep. How could she ‘comfort Father and

Mother’ when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her

sister, how could she ‘make the house cheerful’ when all its light and

warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old

home for the new, and where in all the world could she ‘find some

useful, happy work to do’, that would take the place of the loving

service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless

way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it

seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made

heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some

people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not

fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,

only disappointment, trouble and hard work.

Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came

over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,

devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that

never seemed to grow any easier. “I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a

life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something

desperate if somebody doesn’t come and help me,” she said to herself,

when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable

state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the

inevitable.

But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good

angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple

spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,

thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed

made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, “Oh, Beth,

come back! Come back!” she did not stretch out her yearning arms in

vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her

sister’s faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with

words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears

that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo’s, and broken

whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went

hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to

heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,

which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo’s burden

seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more

endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother’s arms.

When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found

help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray

head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,

“Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,

for I’m all wrong.”

“My dear, nothing can comfort me like this,” he answered, with a falter

in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and

did not fear to ask for it.

Then, sitting in Beth’s little chair close beside him, Jo told her

troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that

discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all

the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire

confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation

in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not

only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to

serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,

thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called ‘the church of

one member’, and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered

cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had

taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach

another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its

beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.

Other helps had Jo—humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not

be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to

see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as

they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of

her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the

old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself

humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth’s orderly ways, and

giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and

cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she

didn’t know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the

hand...

“You thoughtful creeter, you’re determined we shan’t miss that dear

lamb ef you can help it. We don’t say much, but we see it, and the Lord

will bless you for’t, see ef He don’t.”

As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister

Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly

impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and

children, and how much they were all doing for each other.

“Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should

blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always

_‘perwisin’_ I could,” said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in

the topsy-turvy nursery.

“It’s just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your

nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but

silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love

will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will

fall off.”

“Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma’am, and it takes a good shake to bring

them down. Boys go nutting, and I don’t care to be bagged by them,”

returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would

ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.

Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo’s old spirit, but

she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her

power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of

Meg’s most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.

Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo’s was nearly ready for

the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy’s

impatient shake, but a man’s hand reached up to pick it gently from the

burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she

would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately

she wasn’t thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she

dropped.

Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at

this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the

world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in

her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn’t a heroine, she was only a

struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out

her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood

suggested. It’s highly virtuous to say we’ll be good, but we can’t do

it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all

together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo

had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if

she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She

had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,

and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to

devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to

them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to increase

the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless,

ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and

cheerfully live for others?

Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she

had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she

do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she

found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she

took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the

refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed

the hill called Difficulty.

“Why don’t you write? That always used to make you happy,” said her

mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.

“I’ve no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things.”

“We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.

Try it, dear. I’m sure it would do you good, and please us very much.”

“Don’t believe I can.” But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul

her half-finished manuscripts.

An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching

away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which

caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success

of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got

into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,

for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,

much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her

utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters

from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance

of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as

friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo

was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all

at once.

“I don’t understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like

that to make people praise it so?” she said, quite bewildered.

“There is truth in it, Jo, that’s the secret. Humor and pathos make it

alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no

thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.

You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as

happy as we are in your success.”

“If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn’t mine. I

owe it all to you and Mother and Beth,” said Jo, more touched by her

father’s words than by any amount of praise from the world.

So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent

them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very

charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly

welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like

dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.

When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that

Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon

set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very

quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for ‘the children’ before she

read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each

glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and

satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.

“You like it, Mother?” said Jo, as they laid down the closely written

sheets and looked at one another.

“Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused

Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the

‘mercenary spirit’ had come over her, and a hint here and there in her

letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day.”

“How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to

me.”

“Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have

girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest

you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled.”

“I’m not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I’m sober and

sensible enough for anyone’s confidante now.”

“So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied

it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else.”

“Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,

after I’d refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?”

“I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he

came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another

answer. Forgive me, dear, I can’t help seeing that you are very lonely,

and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my

heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he

tried now.”

“No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I’m glad Amy has learned to

love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if

Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him

any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are

plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,

sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all

comes to give you your reward.”

“Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don’t mind whispering

to Marmee that I’d like to try all kinds. It’s very curious, but the

more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the

more I seem to want. I’d no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is

so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented

with my family. I don’t understand it.”

“I do,” and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the

leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.

“It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn’t

sentimental, doesn’t say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he

says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don’t seem

to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and

tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it

full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know

it’s mine. He says he feels as if he ‘could make a prosperous voyage

now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast’. I pray he

may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain

with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while

God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven

this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!”

“And that’s our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work

miracles. How very, very happy they must be!” and Jo laid the rustling

sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a

lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he

finds himself alone in the workaday world again.

By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not

walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,

not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one

sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,

she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for

affection was strong, and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing for

someone to ‘love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them

be together’. Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings ended

stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners

name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended

now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned

her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection,

till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out,

turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs.

Kirke’s. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad,

and when she came to a little message written in the Professor’s hand,

her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat

looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched

a tender spot in her heart.

“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely

come.”

“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my

dear old Fritz. I didn’t value him half enough when I had him, but now

how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me,

and I’m all alone.”

And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be

fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,

as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.

Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking

up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its

inspirer? Who shall say?