Jo’s Boys by Louisa May Alcott (page 5)

his splendid tie.

‘I’m glad you have not lost the grace of blushing yet; but you will soon, if you keep up this sort of study and forget to be ashamed. The society of such women will unfit you for that of good ones, and lead you into trouble and sin and shame. Oh, why don’t the city fathers stop that evil thing, when they know the harm it does? It made my heart ache to see those boys, who ought to be at home and in their beds, going off for a night of riot which would help to ruin some of them for ever.’

The youths looked scared at Mrs Jo’s energetic protest against one of the fashionable pleasures of the day, and waited in conscience-stricken silence–Stuffy glad that he never went to those gay suppers, and Dolly deeply grateful that he ‘came away early’. With a hand on either shoulder, and all the terrors smoothed from her brow, Mrs Jo went on in her most motherly tone, anxious to do for them what no other woman would, and do it kindly:

‘My dear boys, if I didn’t love you, I would not say these things. I know they are not pleasant; but my conscience won’t let me hold my peace when a word may keep you from two of the great sins that curse the world and send so many young men to destruction. You are just beginning to feel the allurement of them, and soon it will be hard to turn away. Stop now, I beg of you, and not only save yourselves but help others by a brave example. Come to me if things worry you; don’t be afraid or ashamed; I have heard many sadder confessions than any you are ever likely to bring me, and been able to comfort many poor fellows, gone wrong for want of a word in time. Do this, and you will be able to kiss your mothers with clean lips, and by and by have the right to ask innocent girls to love you.’

‘Yes’m, thank you. I suppose you’re right; but it’s pretty hard work to toe the mark when ladies give you wine and gentlemen take their daughters to see Aimee,’ said Dolly, foreseeing tribulations ahead though he knew it was time to ‘pull up’.

‘So it is; but all the more honour to those who are brave and wise enough to resist public opinion, and the easy-going morals of bad or careless men and women. Think of the persons whom you respect most, and in imitating them you will secure the respect of those who look up to you. I’d rather my boys should be laughed at and cold-shouldered by a hundred foolish fellows than lose what, once gone, no power can give them back–innocence and self-respect. I don’t wonder you find it “hard to toe the mark”, when books, pictures, ball-rooms, theatres, and streets offer temptations; yet you can resist, if you try. Last winter Mrs Brooke used to worry about John’s being out so late reporting; but when she spoke to him about the things he must see and hear on his way to and fro from the office at midnight, he said in his sober way, “I know what you mean, mother; but no fellow need to go wrong unless he wants to.”

‘That’s like the Deacon!’ exclaimed Stuffy, with an approving smile on his fat face.

‘I’m glad you told me that. He’s right; and it’s because he doesn’t want to go wrong we all respect him so,’ added Dolly, looking up now with an expression which assured his Mentor that the right string had been touched, and a spirit of emulation roused, more helpful, perhaps, than any words of hers. Seeing this, she was satisfied, and said, as she prepared to leave the bar before which her culprits had been tried and found guilty, but recommended to mercy:

‘Then be to others what John is to you–a good example. Forgive me for troubling you, my dear lads, and remember my little preachment. I think it will do you good, though I may never know it. Chance words spoken in kindness often help amazingly; and that’s what old people are here for–else their experience is of little use. Now, come and find the young folk. I hope I shall never have to shut the gates of Plumfield upon you, as I have on some of your “gentlemen”. I mean to keep my boys and girls safe if I can, and this a wholesome place where the good old-fashioned virtues are lived and taught.’

Much impressed by that dire threat, Dolly helped her from her perch with deep respect; and Stuffy relieved her of her empty jugs, solemnly vowing to abstain from all fermented beverages except root-beer, as long as feeble flesh could hold out. Of course they made light of ‘Mother Bhaer’s lecture’ when they were alone–that was to be expected of ‘men of our class’ but in their secret souls they thanked her for giving their boyish consciences a jog, and more than once afterward had cause to remember gratefully that half-hour in the tennis court.

Chapter 17

AMONG THE MAIDS

Although this story is about Jo’s boys, her girls cannot be neglected, because they held a high place in this little republic, and especial care was taken to fit them to play their parts worthily in the great republic which offered them wider opportunities and more serious duties. To many the social influence was the better part of the training they received; for education is not confined to books, and the finest characters often graduate from no college, but make experience their master, and life their book. Others cared only for the mental culture, and were in danger of over-studying, under the delusion which pervades New England that learning must be had at all costs, forgetting that health and real wisdom are better. A third class of ambitious girls hardly knew what they wanted, but were hungry for whatever could fit them to face the world and earn a living, being driven by necessity, the urgency of some half-conscious talent, or the restlessness of strong young natures to break away from the narrow life which no longer satisfied.

At Plumfield all found something to help them; for the growing institution had not yet made its rules as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians, and believed so heartily in the right of all sexes, colours, creeds, and ranks to education, that there was room for everyone who knocked, and a welcome to the shabby youths from up country, the eager girls from the West, the awkward freedman or woman from the South, or the well-born student whose poverty made this college a possibility when other doors were barred. There still was prejudice, ridicule, neglect in high places, and prophecies of failure to contend against; but the Faculty was composed of cheerful, hopeful men and women who had seen greater reforms spring from smaller roots, and after stormy seasons blossom beautifully, to add prosperity and honour to the nation. So they worked on steadily and bided their time, full of increasing faith in their attempt as year after year their numbers grew, their plans succeeded, and the sense of usefulness in this most vital of all professions blessed them with its sweet rewards.

Among the various customs which had very naturally sprung up was one especially useful and interesting to ‘the girls’, as the young women liked to be called. It all grew out of the old sewing hour still kept up by the three sisters long after the little work-boxes had expanded into big baskets full of household mending. They were busy women, yet on Saturdays they tried to meet in one of the three sewing-rooms; for even classic Parnassus had its nook where Mrs Amy often sat among her servants, teaching them to make and mend, thereby giving them a respect for economy, since the rich lady did not scorn to darn her hose, and sew on buttons. In these household retreats, with books and work, and their daughters by them, they read and sewed and talked in the sweet privacy that domestic women love, and can make so helpful by a wise mixture of cooks and chemistry, table linen and theology, prosaic duties and good poetry.

Mrs Meg was the first to propose enlarging this little circle; for as she went her motherly rounds among the young women she found a sad lack of order, skill, and industry in this branch of education. Latin, Greek, the higher mathematics, and science of all sorts prospered finely; but the dust gathered on the work-baskets, frayed elbows went unheeded, and some of the blue stockings sadly needed mending. Anxious lest the usual sneer at learned women should apply to ‘our girls’, she gently lured two or three of the most untidy to her house, and made the hour so pleasant, the lesson so kindly, that they took the hint, were grateful for the favour, and asked to come again. Others soon begged to make the detested weekly duty lighter by joining the party, and soon it was a privilege so much desired that the old museum was refitted with sewing-machines, tables, rocking-chair, and a cheerful fireplace, so that, rain or shine, the needles might go on undisturbed.

Here Mrs Meg was in her glory, and stood wielding her big shears like a queen as she cut out white work, fitted dresses, and directed Daisy, her special aide, about the trimming of hats, and completing the lace and ribbon trifles which add grace to the simplest costume and save poor or busy girls so much money and time. Mrs Amy contributed taste, and decided the great question of colours and complexions; for few women, even the most learned, are without that desire to look well which makes many a plain face comely, as well as many a pretty one ugly for want of skill and knowledge of the fitness of things. She also took her turn to provide books for the readings, and as art was her forte she gave them selections from Ruskin, Hamerton, and Mrs Jameson, who is never old. Bess read these aloud as her contribution, and Josie took her turn at the romances, poetry, and plays her uncles recommended. Mrs Jo gave little lectures on health, religion, politics, and the various questions in which all should be interested, with copious extracts from Miss Cobbe’s Duties of Women, Miss Brackett’s Education of American Girls, Mrs Duffy’s No Sex in Education, Mrs Woolson’s Dress Reform, and many of the other excellent books wise women write for their sisters, now that they are waking up and asking: ‘What shall we do?’

It was curious to see the prejudices melt away as ignorance was enlightened, indifference change to interest, and intelligent minds set thinking, while quick wits and lively tongues added spice to the discussions which inevitably followed. So the feet that wore the neatly mended hose carried wiser heads than before, the pretty gowns covered hearts warmed with higher purposes, and the hands that dropped the thimbles for pens, lexicons, and celestial globes, were better fitted for life’s work, whether to rock cradles, tend the sick, or help on the great work of the world.

One day a brisk discussion arose concerning careers for women. Mrs Jo had read something on the subject and asked each of the dozen girls sitting about the room, what she intended to do on leaving college. The answers were as usual: ‘I shall teach, help mother, study medicine, art,’ etc.; but nearly all ended with:

‘Till I marry.’

‘But if you don’t marry, what then?’ asked Mrs Jo, feeling like a girl again as she listened to the answers, and watched the thoughtful, gay, or eager faces.

‘Be old maids, I suppose. Horrid, but inevitable, since there are so many superfluous women,’ answered a lively lass, too pretty to fear single blessedness unless she chose it.

‘It is well to consider that fact, and fit yourselves to be useful, not superfluous women. That class, by the way, is largely made up of widows, I find; so don’t consider it a slur on maidenhood.’

‘That’s a comfort! Old maids aren’t sneered at half as much as they used to be, since some of them have grown famous and proved that woman isn’t a half but a whole human being, and can stand alone.’

‘Don’t like it all the same. We can’t all be like Miss Nightingale, Miss Phelps, and the rest.’

So what can we do but sit in a corner and look on?’ asked a plain girl with a dissatisfied expression.

‘Cultivate cheerfulness and content, if nothing else. But there are so many little odd jobs waiting to be done that nobody need “sit idle and look on”, unless she chooses,’ said Mrs Meg, with a smile, laying on the girl’s head the new hat she had just trimmed.

‘Thank you very much. Yes, Mrs Brooke, I see; it’s a little job, but it makes me neat and happy–and grateful,’ she added, looking up with brighter eyes as she accepted the labour of love and the lesson as sweetly as they were given.

‘One of the best and most beloved women I know has been doing odd jobs for the Lord for years, and will keep at it till her dear hands are folded in her coffin. All sorts of things she does–picks up neglected children and puts them in safe homes, saves lost girls, nurses poor women in trouble, sews, knits, trots, begs, works for the poor day after day with no reward but the thanks of the needy, the love and honour of the rich who make Saint Matilda their almoner. That’s a life worth living; and I think that quiet little woman will get a higher seat in Heaven than many of those of whom the world has heard.’

‘I know it’s lovely, Mrs Bhaer; but it’s dull for young folks. We do want a little fun before we buckle to,’ said a Western girl with a wide-awake face.

‘Have your fun, my dear; but if you must earn your bread, try to make it sweet with cheerfulness, not bitter with the daily regret that it isn’t cake. I used to think mine was a very hard fate because I had to amuse a somewhat fretful old lady; but the books I read in that lonely library have been of immense use to me since, and the dear old soul bequeathed me Plumfield for my “cheerful service and affectionate care”. I didn’t deserve it, but I did use to try to be jolly and kind, and get as much honey out of duty as I could, thanks to my dear mother’s help and advice.’

‘Gracious! if I could earn a place like this, I’d sing all day and be an angel; but you have to take your chance, and get nothing for your pains, perhaps. I never do,’ said the Westerner, who had a hard time with small means and large aspirations.

‘Don’t do it for the reward; but be sure it will come, though not in the shape you expect. I worked hard for fame and money one winter; but I got neither, and was much disappointed. A year afterwards I found I had earned two prizes: skill with my pen, and Professor Bhaer.’

Mrs Jo’s laugh was echoed blithely by the girls, who liked to have these conversations enlivened by illustrations from life.

‘You are a very lucky woman,’ began the discontented damsel, whose soul soared above new hats, welcome as they were, but did not quite know where to steer.

‘Yet her name used to be “Luckless Jo”, and she never had what she wanted till she had given up hoping for it,’ said Mrs Meg.

‘I’ll give up hoping, then, right away, and see if my wishes will come. I only want to help my folks, and get a good school.’

‘Take this proverb for your guide: “Get the distaff ready, and the Lord will send the flax”,’ answered Mrs Jo.

‘We’d better all do that, if we are to be spinsters,’ said the pretty one, adding gaily, ‘I think I should like it, on the whole–they are so independent. My Aunt Jenny can do just what she likes, and ask no one’s leave; but Ma has to consult Pa about everything. Yes, I’ll give you my chance, Sally, and be a “superfluum”, as Mr Plock says.’

‘You’ll be one of the first to go into bondage, see if you aren’t. Much obliged, all the same.’

‘Well, I’ll get my distaff ready, and take whatever flax the Fates send–single, or double-twisted, as the powers please.’

‘That is the right spirit, Nelly. Keep it up, and see how happy life will be with a brave heart, a willing hand, and plenty to do.’

‘No one objects to plenty of domestic work or fashionable pleasure, I find; but the minute we begin to study, people tell us we can’t bear it, and warn us to be very careful. I’ve tried the other things, and got so tired I came to college; though my people predict nervous exhaustion and an early death. Do you think there is any danger?’ asked a stately girl, with an anxious glance at the blooming face reflected in the mirror opposite.

‘Are you stronger or weaker than when you came two years ago, Miss Winthrop?’

‘Stronger in body, and much happier in mind. I think I was dying of ennui; but the doctors called it inherited delicacy of constitution. That is why mamma is so anxious, and I wish not to go too fast.’

‘Don’t worry, my dear; that active brain of yours was starving for good food; it has plenty now, and plain living suits you better than luxury and dissipation. It is all nonsense about girls not being able to study as well as boys. Neither can bear cramming; but with proper care both are better for it; so enjoy the life your instinct led you to, and we will prove that wise headwork is a better cure for that sort of delicacy than tonics, and novels on the sofa, where far too many of our girls go to wreck nowadays. They burn the candle at both ends; and when they break down they blame the books, not the balls.’

‘Dr Nan was telling me about a patient of hers who thought she had heart-complaint, till Nan made her take off her corsets, stopped her coffee and dancing all night, and made her eat, sleep, walk, and live regularly for a time; and now she’s a brilliant cure. Common sense versus custom, Nan said.’

‘I’ve had no headaches since I came here, and can do twice as much studying as I did at home. It’s the air, I think, and the fun of going ahead of the boys,’ said another girl, tapping her big forehead with her thimble, as if the lively brain inside was in good working order and enjoyed the daily gymnastics she gave it.

‘Quality, not quantity, wins the day, you know. Our brains may be smaller, but I don’t see that they fall short of what is required of them; and if I’m not mistaken, the largest-headed man in our class is the dullest,’ said Nelly, with a solemn air which produced a gale of merriment; for all knew that the young Goliath she mentioned had been metaphorically slain by this quick-witted David on many a battle-field, to the great disgust of himself and his mates.

‘Mrs Brooke, do I gauge on the right or the wrong side?’ asked the best Greek scholar of her class, eyeing a black silk apron with a lost expression.

‘The right, Miss Pierson; and leave a space between the tucks; it looks prettier so.’

‘I’ll never make another; but it will save my dresses from ink-stains, so I’m glad I’ve got it’; and the erudite Miss Pierson laboured on, finding it a harder task than any Greek root she ever dug up.

‘We paper-stainers must learn how to make shields, or we are lost. I’ll give you a pattern of the pinafore I used to wear in my “blood-and-thunder days”, as we call them,’ said Mrs Jo, trying to remember what became of the old tin-kitchen which used to hold her works.

‘Speaking of writers reminds me that my ambition is to be a George Eliot, and thrill the world! It must be so splendid to know that one has such power, and to hear people own that one possesses a “masculine intellect”! I don’t care for most women’s novels, but hers are immense; don’t you think so, Mrs Bhaer?’ asked the girl with the big forehead, and torn braid on her skirt.

‘Yes; but they don’t thrill me as little Charlotte Bronte’s books do. The brain is there, but the heart seems left out. I admire, but I don’t love, George Eliot; and her life is far sadder to me than Miss Bronte’s, because, in spite of the genius, love, and fame, she missed the light without which no soul is truly great, good, or happy.’

‘Yes’m, I know; but still it’s so romantic and sort of new and mysterious, and she was great in one sense. Her nerves and dyspepsia do rather destroy the illusion; but I adore famous people and mean to go and see all I can scare up in London some day.’

‘You will find some of the best of them busy about just the work I recommend to you; and if you want to see a great lady, I’ll tell you that Mrs Laurence means to bring one here today. Lady Abercrombie is lunching with her, and after seeing the college is to call on us. She especially wanted to see our sewing-school, as she is interested in things of this sort, and gets them up at home.’

‘Bless me! I always imagined lords and ladies did nothing but ride round in a coach and six, go to balls, and be presented to the Queen in cocked hats, and trains and feathers,’ exclaimed an artless young person from the wilds of Maine, whither an illustrated paper occasionally wandered.

‘Not at all; Lord Abercrombie is over here studying up our American prison system, and my lady is busy with the schools– both very high-born, but the simplest and most sensible people I’ve met this long time. They are neither of them young nor handsome, and dress plainly; so don’t expect anything splendid. Mr Laurence was telling me last night about a friend of his who met my lord in the hall, and owing to a rough greatcoat and a red face, mistook him for a coachman, and said: “Now, my man, what do you want here?” Lord Abercrombie mildly mentioned who he was, and that he had come to dinner. And the poor host was much afflicted, saying afterward: “Why didn’t he wear his stars and garters? then a fellow would know he was a lord.”‘

The girls laughed again, and a general rustle betrayed that each was prinking a bit before the titled guest arrived. Even Mrs Jo settled her collar, and Mrs Meg felt if her cap was right, while Bess shook out her curls and Josie boldly consulted the glass; for they were women, in spite of philosophy and philanthropy.

‘Shall we all rise?’ asked one girl, deeply impressed by the impending honour.

‘It would be courteous.’

‘Shall we shake hands?’

‘No, I’ll present you en masse, and your pleasant faces will be introduction enough.’

‘I wish I’d worn my best dress. Ought to have told us,’ whispered Sally.

‘Won’t my folks be surprised when I tell them we have had a real lady to call on us?’ said another.

‘Don’t look as if you’d never seen a gentlewoman before, Milly. We are not all fresh from the wilderness,’ added the stately damsel who, having Mayflower ancestors, felt that she was the equal of all the crowned heads of Europe.

‘Hush, she’s coming! Oh, my heart, what a bonnet!’ cried the gay girl in a stage whisper; and every eye was demurely fixed upon the busy hands as the door opened to admit Mrs Laurence and her guest.

It was rather a shock to find, after the general introduction was over, that this daughter of a hundred earls was a stout lady in a plain gown, and a rather weather-beaten bonnet, with a bag of papers in one hand and a note-book in the other. But the face was full of benevolence, the sonorous voice very kind, the genial manners very winning, and about the whole person an indescribable air of high breeding which made beauty of no consequence, costume soon forgotten, and the moment memorable to the keen-eyed girls whom nothing escaped.

A little chat about the rise, growth, and success of this particular class, and then Mrs Jo led the conversation to the English lady’s work, anxious to show her pupils how rank dignifies labour, and charity blesses wealth.

It was good for these girls to hear of the evening-schools supported and taught by women whom they knew and honoured; of Miss Cobbe’s eloquent protest winning the protection of the law for abused wives; Mrs Butler saving the lost; Mrs Taylor, who devoted one room in her historic house to a library for the servants; Lord Shaftesbury, busy with his new tenement-houses in the slums of London; of prison reforms; and all the brave work being done in God’s name by the rich and great for the humble and the poor. It impressed them more than many quiet home lectures would have done, and roused an ambition to help when their time should come, well knowing that even in glorious America there is still plenty to be done before she is what she should be–truly just, and free, and great. They were also quick to see that Lady Abercrombie treated all there as her equals, from stately Mrs Laurence, to little Josie, taking notes of everything and privately resolving to have some thick-soled English boots as soon as possible. No one would have guessed that she had a big house in London, a castle in Wales, and a grand country seat in Scotland, as she spoke of Parnassus with admiration, Plumfield as a ‘dear old home’, and the college as an honour to all concerned in it. At that, of course, every head went up a little, and when my lady left, every hand was ready for the hearty shake the noble Englishwoman gave them, with words they long remembered:

‘I am very pleased to see this much-neglected branch of a woman’s education so well conducted here, and I have to thank my friend Mrs Laurence for one of the most charming pictures I’ve seen in America–Penelope among her maids.’

A group of smiling faces watched the stout boots trudge away, respectful glances followed the shabby bonnet till it was out of sight, and the girls felt a truer respect for their titled guest than if she had come in the coach and six, with all her diamonds on.

‘I feel better about the “odd jobs” now. I only wish I could do them as well as Lady Abercrombie does,’ said one.

‘I thanked my stars my buttonholes were nice, for she looked at them and said: “Quite workmanlike, upon my word,” added another, feeling that her gingham gown had come to honour.

‘Her manners were as sweet and kind as Mrs Brooke’s. Not a bit stiff or condescending, as I expected. I see now what you meant, Mrs Bhaer, when you said once that well-bred people were the same all the world over.’

Mrs Meg bowed her thanks for the compliment, and Mrs Bhaer said:

‘I know them when I see them, but never shall be a model of deportment myself. I’m glad you enjoyed the little visit. Now, if you young people don’t want England to get ahead of us in many ways, you must bestir yourselves and keep abreast; for our sisters are in earnest, you see, and don’t waste time worrying about their sphere, but make it wherever duty calls them.’

‘We will do our best, ma’am,’ answered the girls heartily, and trooped away with their work-baskets, feeling that though they might never be Harriet Martineaus, Elizabeth Brownings, or George Eliots, they might become noble, useful, and independent women, and earn for themselves some sweet title from the grateful lips of the poor, better than any a queen could bestow.

Chapter 18

CLASS DAY

The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries, white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest. As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators. The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex.

College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg, with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President’s lady, and the mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic woman to get her son into his Sunday best.

Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were ‘no end nobby’; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the yellow mane:

‘My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat, Plumfield wouldn’t hold either of us, such would be the scorn and derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the ghost of a waiter, and don’t ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in the known world.’

Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long before–like Beau Brummel–he turned from a heap of ‘failures’ with the welcome words: ‘That will do.’ Rob was devoted on these trying occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed, simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then, fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading Ted that he was ‘a thing of beauty’, if not ‘a joy for ever’. At last he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to which those worn by Dickens’s afflicted Biler were trifles not worth mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared at one end of the ‘long, black clothes-pin’–as Josie called him—and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and–oh, bitter drop in the cup of joy!–an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this impressive boy.

‘How’s that for style?’ he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion.

A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror; for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat.

‘Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?’ said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long son.

‘Let him wear it, Aunty; it’s so becoming. No one will ever guess he isn’t eighteen at least,’ cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort was always charming.

‘Father won’t observe it; he’ll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the girls. No matter if he does, he’ll enjoy the joke and introduce me as his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I’m in full fig’; and Ted took the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker.

‘My son, obey me!’ and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one ray of joy to light his gloom.

Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking of the ‘little gardens’ in which he had hopefully and faithfully sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest seemed to have sprung. Mr March’s fine old face shone with the serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit; for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies, enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved; while ‘the original Plums’, as the younger ones called themselves, regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious, admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity and delight rather comical to behold.

The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the baton. The poems were–as usual on such occasions–of varied excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men’s faces when a slender white figure stood out against the background of black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke to them straight out of a woman’s heart and brain concerning the hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire, and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for ever.

Alice Heath’s oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her stirring appeal to ‘march shoulder to shoulder’, as if she had chanted the ‘Marseillaise’ then and there. One young man was so excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him, however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the President’s remarks.

They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet echoes to haunt the place for another year.

Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the festivities of the evening began. The President’s reception was one of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a few hours by youths and maidens just out of school.

Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr Bhaer’s hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian declared that they must be the Professor’s nephews, one of whom was expected on his wedding journey.

She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride, and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny English Mary, with the rapturous announcement:

‘Uncle, Aunt Jo, here’s another daughter! Have you room for my wife, too?’

There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun.

‘But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of one?’ asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was preparing for the labours of the evening.

‘Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle Laurie’s marriage, and I thought I’d give you another nice little surprise,’ laughed Emil. ‘I’m off duty, and it seemed best to take advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn’t fetch it, so here we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.’

‘Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,’ cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him.

An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the happy family; then of course everyone began to talk–Franz and Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a very different story from the written one; and as they listened to Emil’s graphic words, with Mary’s soft voice breaking in now and then to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that great danger and deliverance.

‘I never hear the patter of rain now that I don’t want to say my prayers; and as for women, I’d like to take my hat off to every one of ’em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,’ said Emil, with the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness with which he treated everyone.

‘If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a girl’s pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I will tell, and you must let me!’ cried Mary, holding in both her own the hand he laid on her lips to silence her.

‘Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn’t that an awful night?’ And Emil shuddered as he recalled it.

‘Don’t think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania, when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,’ said Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible experience.

Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his ‘dear lass’, in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale.

‘Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn’t do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made ’em as hazy as a London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only I couldn’t part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I’m bound straight for glory now.’

‘Hush! that’s silly, dear,’ whispered Mary, trying in her turn to stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship.

‘The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren’t like to see any rougher weather than we’d pulled through together, and if we didn’t know one another after such a year as this, we never should. I was sure I shouldn’t be worth my pay without this hand on the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for the long voyage. God bless her!’

‘Shall you really sail with him?’ asked Daisy, admiring her courage, but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water.

‘I’m not afraid,’ answered Mary, with a loyal smile. ‘I’ve proved my captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again, I’d rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.’

‘A true woman, and a born sailor’s wife! You are a happy man, Emil, and I’m sure this trip will be a prosperous one,’ cried Mrs Jo, delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. ‘Oh, my dear boy, I always felt you’d come back, and when everyone else despaired I never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top jib somewhere on that dreadful sea’; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture.

‘Of course I was!’ answered Emil heartily; ‘and my “main-top jib” in this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand, you remember–English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe should be there.’

‘And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and here is your reward’; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was.

Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he looked about the room which he never thought to see again: ‘Odd, isn’t it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you calling, “Boys, boys, it’s time to get up!” I actually smelt the coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from a dream of Asia’s ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy smell in my nostrils. If you’ve got any, do give me one!’

A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to hear what Franz was saying about Nat.

‘The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good, and he’s paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, like an honest fellow.’

‘I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann offers him,’ said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some facts already recorded.

‘I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this moment!’ cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties which had troubled her for months past.

‘I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do, especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover before I can turn round,’ answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair.

But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat’s trials, and hastened to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success is always charming.

‘This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn’t it?’ she asked, though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat’s letter brought the news.

‘Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister’s orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly over it, saying, like the true lover he is: “Tell Daisy; be sure and tell her all about it.” I’ll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard. Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big eyes and “Mendelssohnian brow”, as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla has a photo of it for you.’

This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten to remember for his friend’s sake. He talked so well, and painted Nat’s patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful ‘We shall see’ to a cordial ‘He has done well; be happy, dear’.

In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a clutch at her crimping-pins:

‘My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room. Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion, we are both perfect wrecks.’

Chapter 19

WHITE ROSES

While the travellers refreshed, and Mrs President struggled into her best gown, Josie ran into the garden to gather flowers for the brides. The sudden arrival of these interesting beings had quite enchanted the romantic girl, and her head was full of heroic rescues, tender admiration, dramatic situations, and feminine wonder as to whether the lovely creatures would wear their veils or not. She was standing before a great bush of white roses, culling the most perfect for the bouquets which she meant to tie with the ribbon festooned over her arm, and lay on the toilette tables of the new cousins, as a delicate attention. A step startled her, and looking up she saw her brother coming down the path with folded arms, bent head, and the absent air of one absorbed in deep thought.

‘Sophy Wackles,’ said the sharp child, with a superior smile, as she sucked her thumb just pricked by a too eager pull at the thorny branches.

‘What are you at here, Mischief?’ asked Demi, with an Irvingesque start, as he felt rather than saw a disturbing influence in his day-dream.

‘Getting flowers for “our brides”. Don’t you wish you had one?’ answered Josie, to whom the word ‘mischief’ suggested her favourite amusement.

‘A bride or a flower?’ asked Demi calmly, though he eyed the blooming bush as if it had a sudden and unusual interest for him.

‘Both; you get the one, and I’ll give you the other.’

‘Wish I could!’ and Demi picked a little bud, with a sigh that went to Josie’s warm heart.

‘Why don’t you, then? It’s lovely to see people so happy. Now’s a good time to do it if you ever mean to. She will be going away for ever soon.’

‘Who?’ and Demi pulled a half-opened bud, with a sudden colour in his own face; which sign of confusion delighted little Jo.

‘Don’t be a hypocrite. You know I mean Alice. Now, Jack, I’m fond of you, and want to help; it’s so interesting–all these lovers and weddings and things, and we ought to have our share. So you take my advice and speak up like a man, and make sure of Alice before she goes.’

Demi laughed at the seriousness of the small girl’s advice; but he liked it, and showed that it suited him by saying blandly, instead of snubbing her as usual:

‘You are very kind, child. Since you are so wise, could you give me a hint how I’d better ‘speak up’, as you elegantly express it?’

‘Oh, well, there are various ways, you know. In plays the lovers go down on their knees; but that’s awkward when they have long legs. Ted never does it well, though I drill him for hours. You could say, “Be mine, be mine!” like the old man who threw cucumbers over the wall to Mrs Nickleby, if you want to be gay and easy; or you could write a poetical pop. You’ve tried it, I dare say.’

‘But seriously, Jo, I do love Alice, and I think she knows it. I want to tell her so; but I lose my head when I try, and don’t care to make a fool of myself. Thought you might suggest some pretty way; you read so much poetry and are so romantic.’

Demi tried to express himself clearly, but forgot his dignity and his usual reserve in the sweet perplexity of his love, and asked his little sister to teach him how to put the question which a single word can answer. The arrival of his happy cousins had scattered all his wise plans and brave resolutions to wait still longer. The Christmas play had given him courage to hope, and the oration today had filled him with tender pride; but the sight of those blooming brides and beaming grooms was too much for him, and he panted to secure his Alice without an hour’s delay. Daisy was his confidante in all things but this; a brotherly feeling of sympathy had kept him from telling her his hopes, because her own were forbidden. His mother was rather jealous of any girl he admired; but knowing that she liked Alice, he loved on and enjoyed his secret alone, meaning soon to tell her all about it.

Now suddenly Josie and the rose-bush seemed to suggest a speedy end to his tender perplexities; and he was moved to accept her aid as the netted lion did that of the mouse.

‘I think I’ll write,’ he was slowly beginning, after a pause during which both were trying to strike out a new and brilliant idea.

‘I’ve got it! perfectly lovely! just suit her, and you too, being a poet!’ cried Josie, with a skip.

‘What is it? Don’t be ridiculous, please,’ begged the bashful lover, eager, but afraid of this sharp-tongued bit of womanhood.

‘I read in one of Miss Edgeworth’s stories about a man who offers three roses to his lady–a bud, a half-blown, and a full-blown rose. I don’t remember which she took; but it’s a pretty way; and Alice knows about it because she was there when we read it. Here are all kinds; you’ve got the two buds, pick the sweetest rose you can find, and I’ll tie them up and put them in her room. She is coming to dress with Daisy, so I can do it nicely.’

Demi mused a moment with his eyes on the bridal bush, and a smile came over his face so unlike any it had ever worn before, that Josie was touched, and looked away as if she had no right to see the dawn of the great passion which, while it lasts, makes a young man as happy as a god.

‘Do it,’ was all he said, and gathered a full-blown rose to finish his floral love-message.

Charmed to have a finger in this romantic pie, Josie tied a graceful bow of ribbon about the stems, and finished her last nosegay with much content, while Demi wrote upon a card:

DEAR ALICE, You know what the flowers mean. Will you wear one, or all tonight, and make me still prouder, fonder, and happier than I am?

Yours entirely,

JOHN

Offering this to his sister, he said in a tone that made her feel the deep importance of her mission:

‘I trust you, Jo. This means everything to me. No jokes, dear, if you love me.’

Josie’s answer was a kiss that promised all things; and then she ran away to do her ‘gentle spiriting’, like Ariel, leaving Demi to dream among the roses like Ferdinand.

Mary and Ludmilla were charmed with their bouquets; and the giver had the delight of putting some of the flowers into the dark hair and the light as she played maid at the toilettes of ‘our brides’, which consoled her for a disappointment in the matter of veils.

No one helped Alice dress; for Daisy was in the next room with her mother; and not even their loving eyes saw the welcome which the little posy received, nor the tears and smiles and blushes that came and went as she read the note and pondered what answer she should give. There was no doubt about the one she wished to give; but duty held her back; for at home there was an invalid mother and an old father. She was needed there, with all the help she could now bring by the acquirements four years of faithful study had given her. Love looked very sweet, and a home of her own with John a little heaven on earth; but not yet. And she slowly laid away the full-blown rose as she sat before the mirror, thinking over the great question of her life.

Was it wise and kind to ask him to wait, to bind him by any promise, or even to put into words the love and honour she felt for him? No; it would be more generous to make the sacrifice alone, and spare him the pain of hope deferred. He was young; he would forget; and she would do her duty better, perhaps, if no impatient lover waited for her. With eyes that saw but dimly, and a hand that lingered on the stem he had stripped of thorns, she laid the half-blown flower by the rose, and asked herself if even the little bud might be worn. It looked very poor and pale beside the others; yet being in the self-sacrificing mood which real love brings, she felt that even a small hope was too much to give, if she could not follow it up with more.

As she sat looking sadly down on the symbols of an affection that grew dearer every moment, she listened half unconsciously to the murmur of voices in the adjoining room. Open windows, thin partitions, and the stillness of summer twilight made it impossible to help hearing, and in a few moments more she could not refrain; for they were talking of John.

‘So nice of Ludmilla to bring us all bottles of real German cologne! Just what we need after this tiring day! Be sure John has his! He likes it so!’

‘Yes, mother. Did you see him jump up when Alice ended her oration? He’d have gone to her if I hadn’t held him back. I don’t wonder he was pleased and proud. I spoilt my gloves clapping, and quite forgot my dislike of seeing women on platforms, she was so earnest and unconscious and sweet after the first moment.’

‘Has he said anything to you, dear?’

‘No; and I guess why. The kind boy thinks it would make me unhappy. It wouldn’t. But I know his ways; so I wait, and hope all will go well with him.’

‘It must. No girl in her senses would refuse our John, though he isn’t rich, and never will be. Daisy, I’ve been longing to tell you what he did with his money. He told me last night, and I’ve had no time since to tell you. He sent poor young Barton to the hospital, and kept him there till his eyes were saved–a costly thing to do. But the man can work now and care for his old parents. He was in despair, sick and poor, and too proud to beg; and our dear boy found it out, and took every penny he had, and never told even his mother till she made him.’

Alice did not hear what Daisy answered, for she was busy with her own emotions–happy ones now, to judge from the smile that shone in her eyes and the decided gesture with which she put the little bud in her bosom, as if she said: ‘He deserves some reward for that good deed, and he shall have it.’

Mrs Meg was speaking, and still of John, when she could hear again:

‘Some people would call it unwise and reckless, when John has so little; but I think his first investment a safe and good one, for “he who giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord”; and I was so pleased and proud, I wouldn’t spoil it by offering him a penny.’

‘It is his having nothing to offer that keeps him silent, I think. He is so honest, he won’t ask till he has much to give. But he forgets that love is everything. I know he’s rich in that; I see and feel it; and any woman should be glad to get it.’

‘Right, dear. I felt just so, and was willing to work and wait with and for my John.’

‘So she will be, and I hope they will find it out. But she is so dutiful and good, I’m afraid she won’t let herself be happy. You would like it, mother?’

‘Heartily; for a better, nobler girl doesn’t live. She is all I want for my son; and I don’t mean to lose the dear, brave creature if I can help it. Her heart is big enough for both love and duty; and they can wait more happily if they do it together–for wait they must, of course.’

‘I’m so glad his choice suits you, mother, and he is spared the saddest sort of disappointment.’

Daisy’s voice broke there; and a sudden rustle, followed by a soft murmur, seemed to tell that she was in her mother’s arms, seeking and finding comfort there.

Alice heard no more, and shut her window with a guilty feeling but a shining face; for the proverb about listeners failed here, and she had learned more than she dared to hope. Things seemed to change suddenly; she felt that her heart was large enough for both love and duty; she knew now that she would be welcomed by mother and sister; and the memory of Daisy’s less happy fate, Nat’s weary probation, the long delay, and possible separation for ever–all came before her so vividly that prudence seemed cruelty; self-sacrifice, sentimental folly; and anything but the whole truth, disloyalty to her lover. As she thought thus, the half-blown rose went to join the bud; and then, after a pause, she slowly kissed the perfect rose, and added it to the tell-tale group, saying to herself with a sort of sweet solemnity, as if the words were a vow:

‘I’ll love and work and wait with and for my John.’

It was well for her that Demi was absent when she stole down to join the guests who soon began to flow through the house in a steady stream. The new brightness which touched her usually thoughtful face was easily explained by the congratulations she received as orator, and the slight agitation observable, when a fresh batch of gentlemen approached soon passed, as none of them noticed the flowers she wore over a very happy heart. Demi meantime was escorting certain venerable personages about the college, and helping his grandfather entertain them with discussion of the Socratic method of instruction, Pythagoras, Pestalozzi, Froebel, and the rest, whom he devoutly wished at the bottom of the Red Sea, and no wonder, for his head and his heart were full of love and roses, hopes and fears. He piloted the ‘potent, grave, and reverend seigniors’ safely down to Plumfield at last, and landed them before his uncle and aunt Bhaer, who were receiving in state, the one full of genuine delight in all men and things, the other suffering martyrdom with a smile, as she stood shaking hand after hand, and affecting utter unconsciousness of the sad fact that ponderous Professor Plock had camped upon the train of her state and festival velvet gown.

With a long sigh of relief Demi glanced about him for the beloved girl. Most persons would have looked some time before any particular angel could be discovered among the white-robed throng in parlours, hall, and study; but his eye went–like the needle to the pole–to the corner where a smooth dark head, with its braided crown, rose like a queen’s, he thought, above the crowd which surrounded her. Yes, she has a flower at her throat; one, two, oh, blessed sight! he saw it all across the room, and gave a rapturous sigh which caused Miss Perry’s frizzled crop to wave with a sudden gust. He did not see the rose, for it was hidden by a fold of lace; and it was well, perhaps, that bliss came by instalments, or he might have electrified the assembled multitude by flying to his idol, there being no Daisy to clutch him by the coat-tail. A stout lady, thirsting for information, seized him at that thrilling moment, and he was forced to point out celebrities with a saintly patience which deserved a better reward than it received; for a certain absence of mind and incoherence of speech at times caused the ungrateful dowager to whisper to the first friend she met after he had escaped:

‘I saw no wine at any of the spreads; but it is plain that young Brooke has had too much. Quite gentlemanly, but evidently a trifle intoxicated, my dear.’

Ah, so he was! but with a diviner wine than any that ever sparkled at a class-day lunch, though many collegians know the taste of it; and when the old lady was disposed of, he gladly turned to find the young one, bent on having a single word. He saw her standing by the piano now, idly turning over music as she talked with several gentlemen. Hiding his impatience under an air of scholastic repose, Demi hovered near, ready to advance when the happy moment came, wondering meantime why elderly persons persisted in absorbing young ones instead of sensibly sitting in corners with their contemporaries. The elderly persons in question retired at length, but only to be replaced by two impetuous youths who begged Miss Heath to accompany them to Parnassus and join the dance. Demi thirsted for their blood, but was appeased by hearing George and Dolly say, as they lingered a moment after her refusal:

‘Really, you know, I’m quite converted to co-education and almost wish I’d remained here. It gives a grace to study, a sort of relish even to Greek to see charming girls at it,’ said Stuffy, who found the feast of learning so dry, any sauce was welcome; and he felt as if he had discovered a new one.

‘Yes, by Jove! we fellows will have to look out or you’ll carry off all the honours. You were superb today, and held us all like magic, though it was so hot there, I really think I couldn’t have stood it for anyone else,’ added Dolly, labouring to be gallant and really offering a touching proof of devotion; for the heat melted his collar, took the curl out of his hair, and ruined his gloves.

‘There is room for all; and if you will leave us the books, we will cheerfully yield the baseball, boating, dancing, and flirting, which seem to be the branches you prefer,’ answered Alice sweetly.

‘Ah, now you are too hard upon us! We can’t grind all the time and you ladies don’t seem to mind taking a turn at the two latter “branches” you mention,’ returned Dolly, with a glance at George which plainly said, ‘I had her there.’

‘Some of us do in our first years. Later we give up childish things, you see. Don’t let me keep you from Parnassus’; and a smiling nod dismissed them, smarting under the bitter consciousness of youth.

‘You got it there, Doll. Better not try to fence with these superior girls. Sure to be routed, horse, foot, and dragoons,’ said Stuffy, lumbering away, somewhat cross with too many spreads.

‘So deuced sarcastic! Don’t believe she’s much older than we are. Girls grow up quicker, so she needn’t put on airs and talk like a grandmother,’ muttered Dolly, feeling that he had sacrificed his kids upon the altar of an ungrateful Pallas.

‘Come along and let’s find something to eat. I’m faint with so much talking. Old Plock cornered me and made my head spin with Kant and Hegel and that lot.’

‘I promised Dora West I’d give her a turn. Must look her up; she’s a jolly little thing, and doesn’t bother about anything but keeping in step.’

And arm in arm the boys strolled away, leaving Alice to read music as diligently as if society had indeed no charms for her. As she bent to turn a page, the eager young man behind the piano saw the rose and was struck speechless with delight. A moment he gazed, then hastened to seize the coveted place before a new detachment of bores arrived.

‘Alice, I can’t believe it–did you understand–how shall I ever thank you?’ murmured Demi, bending as if he, too, read the song, not a note or word of which did he see, however.

‘Hush! not now. I understood–I don’t deserve it–we are too young, we must wait, but–I’m very proud and happy, John!’

What would have happened after that tender whisper I tremble to think, if Tom Bangs had not come bustling up, with the cheerful remark:

‘Music? just the thing. People are thinning out, and we all want a little refreshment. My brain fairly reels with the ‘ologies and ‘isms I’ve heard discussed tonight. Yes, give us this; sweet thing! Scotch songs are always charming.’

Demi glowered; but the obtuse boy never saw it, and Alice, feeling that this would be a safe vent for sundry unruly emotions, sat down at once, and sang the song which gave her answer better than she could have done:

BIDE A WEE

‘The puir auld folk at home, ye mind, Are frail and failing sair;
And weel I ken they’d miss me, lad, Gin I come hame nae mair.
The grist is out, the times are hard, The kine are only three;
I canna leave the auld folk now.
We’d better bide a wee.

‘I fear me sair they’re failing baith; For when I sit apart,
They talk o’ Heaven so earnestly, It well nigh breaks my heart.
So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
It surely winna be;
I canna leave the auld folk yet.
We’d better bide a wee.’

The room was very still before the first verse ended; and Alice skipped the next, fearing she could not get through; for John’s eyes were on her, showing that he knew she sang for him and let the plaintive little ballad tell what her reply must be. He took it as she meant it, and smiled at her so happily that her heart got the better of her voice, and she rose abruptly, saying something about the heat.

‘Yes, you are tired; come out and rest, my dearest’; and with a masterful air Demi took her into the starlight, leaving Tom to stare after them winking as if a sky-rocket had suddenly gone off under his nose.

‘Bless my soul! the Deacon really meant business last summer and never told me. Won’t Dora laugh?’ And Tom departed in hot haste to impart and exult over his discovery.

What was said in the garden was never exactly known; but the Brooke family sat up very late that night, and any curious eye at the window would have seen Demi receiving the homage of his womankind as he told his little romance. Josie took great credit to herself in the matter, insisting that she had made the match; Daisy was full of the sweetest sympathy and joy, and Mrs Meg so happy that when Jo had gone to dream of bridal veils, and Demi sat in his room blissfully playing the air of ‘Bide a Wee’, she had her talk about Nat, ending with her arms round her dutiful daughter and these welcome words as her reward:

‘Wait till Nat comes home, and then my good girl shall wear white roses too.’

Chapter 20

LIFE FOR LIFE

The summer days that followed were full of rest and pleasure for young and old, as they did the honours of Plumfield to their happy guests. While Franz and Emil were busy with the affairs of Uncle Hermann and Captain Hardy, Mary and Ludmilla made friends everywhere; for, though very unlike, both were excellent and charming girls. Mrs Meg and Daisy found the German bride a Hausfrau after their own hearts, and had delightful times learning new dishes, hearing about the semi-yearly washes and the splendid linen-room at Hamburg, or discussing domestic life in all its branches. Ludmilla not only taught, but learned, many things, and went home with many new and useful ideas in her blonde head.

Mary had seen so much of the world that she was unusually lively for an English girl; while her various accomplishments made her a most agreeable companion. Much good sense gave her ballast; and the late experiences of danger and happiness added a sweet gravity at times, which contrasted well with her natural gaiety. Mrs Jo was quite satisfied with Emil’s choice, and felt sure this true and tender pilot would bring him safe to port through fair or stormy weather. She had feared that Franz would settle down into a comfortable, moneymaking burgher, and be content with that; but she soon saw that his love of music and his placid Ludmilla put much poetry into his busy life, and kept it from being too prosaic. So she felt at rest about these boys, and enjoyed their visit with real, maternal satisfaction; parting with them in September most regretfully, yet hopefully, as they sailed away to the new life that lay before them.

Demi’s engagement was confided to the immediate family only, as both were pronounced too young to do anything but love and wait. They were so happy that time seemed to stand still for them, and after a blissful week they parted bravely–Alice to home duties, with a hope that sustained and cheered her through many trials; and John to his business, full of a new ardour which made all things possible when such a reward was offered.

Daisy rejoiced over them, and was never tired of hearing her brother’s plans for the future. Her own hope soon made her what she used to be–a cheery, busy creature, with a smile, kind word, and helping hand for all; and as she went singing about the house again, her mother felt that the right remedy for past sadness had been found. The dear Pelican still had doubts and fears, but kept them wisely to herself, preparing sundry searching tests to be applied when Nat came home, and keeping a sharp eye on the letters from London; for some mysterious hint had flown across the sea, and Daisy’s content seemed reflected in Nat’s present cheerful state of mind.

Having passed through the Werther period, and tried a little Faust– of which experience he spoke to his Marguerite as if it had included an acquaintance with Mephistopheles, Blocksburg, and Auerbach’s wine-cellar–he now felt that he was a Wilhelm Meister, serving his apprenticeship to the great masters of life. As she knew the truth of his small sins and honest repentance, Daisy only smiled at the mixture of love and philosophy he sent her, knowing that it was impossible for a young man to live in Germany without catching the German spirit.

‘His heart is all right; and his head will soon grow clear when he gets out of the fog of tobacco, beer, and metaphysics he’s been living in. England will wake up his common sense, and good salt air blow his little follies all away,’ said Mrs Jo, much pleased with the good prospects of her violinist–whose return was delayed till spring, to his private regret, but professional advancement.

Josie had a month with Miss Cameron at the seaside, and threw herself so heartily into the lesson given her that her energy, promise, and patience laid the foundation of a friendship which was of infinite value to her in the busy, brilliant years to come; for little Jo’s instincts were right; and the dramatic talent of the Marches was to blossom by and by into an actress, virtuous, and beloved.

Tom and his Dora were peacefully ambling altar-ward; for Bangs senior was so afraid his son would change his mind again and try a third profession, that he gladly consented to an early marriage, as a sort of anchor to hold the mercurial Thomas fast. Aforesaid Thomas could not complain of cold shoulders now; for Dora was a most devoted and adoring little mate, and made life so pleasant to him that his gift for getting into scrapes seemed lost, and he bade fair to become a thriving man, with undeniable talent for the business he had chosen.

‘We shall be married in the autumn, and live with my father for a while. The governor is getting on, you know, and my wife and I must look after him. Later we shall have an establishment of our own,’ was a favourite speech of his about this time, and usually received with smiles; for the idea of Tommy Bangs at the head of an ‘establishment’ was irresistibly funny to all who knew him.

Things were in this flourishing condition, and Mrs Jo was beginning to think her trials were over for that year, when a new excitement came. Several postal cards had arrived at long intervals from Dan, who gave them ‘Care of M. Mason, etc.’, as his address. By this means he was able to gratify his longing for home news, and to send brief messages to quiet their surprise at his delay in settling. The last one, which came in September, was dated ‘Montana’, and simply said:

Here at last, trying mining again; but not going to stay long. All sorts of luck. Gave up the farm idea. Tell plans soon. Well, busy, and very happy. D. K.

If they had known what the heavy dash under ‘happy’ meant, that postal would have been a very eloquent bit of pasteboard; for Dan was free, and had gone straight away to the liberty he panted for. Meeting an old friend by accident, he obliged him at a pinch by acting as overseer for a time, finding the society even of rough miners very sweet, and something in the muscular work wonderfully pleasant, after being cooped up in the brush-shop so long. He loved to take a pick and wrestle with rock and earth till he was weary–which was very soon; for that year of captivity had told upon his splendid physique. He longed to go home, but waited week after week to get the prison taint off him and the haggard look out of his face. Meanwhile he made friends of masters and men; and as no one knew his story, he took his place again in the world gratefully and gladly–with little pride now, and no plans but to do some good somewhere, and efface the past.

Mrs Jo was having a grand clearing-out of her desk one October day, while the rain poured outside, and peace reigned in her mansion. Coming across the postals, she pondered over them, and then put them carefully away in the drawer labelled ‘Boys’ Letters’, saying to herself, as she bundled eleven requests for autographs into the waste-paper basket:

‘It is quite time for another card, unless he is coming to tell his plans. I’m really curious to know what he has been about all this year, and how he’s getting on now.’

That last wish was granted within an hour; for Ted came rushing in, with a newspaper in one hand, a collapsed umbrella in the other, and a face full of excitement, announcing, all in one breathless jumble:

‘Mine caved in–twenty men shut up–no way out–wives crying– water rising–Dan knew the old shaft–risked his life–got ’em out –most killed–papers full of it–I knew he’d be a hero–hurray for old Dan!’

‘What? Where? When? Who? Stop roaring, and let me read!’ commanded his mother, entirely bewildered.

Relinquishing the paper, Ted allowed her to read for herself, with frequent interruptions from him–and Rob, who soon followed, eager for the tale. It was nothing new; but courage and devotion always stir generous hearts, and win admiration; so the account was both graphic and enthusiastic; and the name of Daniel Kean, the brave man who saved the lives of others at the risk of his own, was on many lips that day. Very proud were the faces of these friends as they read how their Dan was the only one who, in the first panic of the accident, remembered the old shaft that led into the mine–walled up, but the only hope of escape, if the men could be got out before the rising water drowned them; how he was lowered down alone, telling the others to keep back till he saw if it was safe; how he heard the poor fellows picking desperately for their lives on the other side, and by knocks and calls guided them to the right spot; then headed the rescue party, and working like a hero, got the men out in time. On being drawn up last of all, the worn rope broke, and he had a terrible fall, being much hurt, but was still alive. How the grateful women kissed his blackened face and bloody hands, as the men bore him away in triumph, and the owners of the mine promised a handsome reward, if he lived to receive it!

‘He must live; he shall, and come home to be nursed as soon as he can stir, if I go and bring him myself! I always knew he’d do something fine and brave, if he didn’t get shot or hung for some wild prank instead,’ cried Mrs Jo, much excited.

‘Do go, and take me with you, Mum. I ought to be the one, Dan’s so fond of me and I of him,’ began Ted, feeling that this would be an expedition after his own heart.

Before his mother could reply, Mr Laurie came in, with almost as much noise and flurry as Teddy the second, exclaiming as he waved the evening paper:

‘Seen the news, Jo? What do you think? Shall I go off at once, and see after that brave boy?’

‘I wish you would. But the thing may not be all true–rumour lies so. Perhaps a few hours will bring an entirely new version of the story.’

‘I’ve telephoned to Demi for all he can find out; and if it’s true, I’ll go at once. Should like the trip. If he’s able, I’ll bring him home; if not, I’ll stay and see to him. He’ll pull through. Dan will never die of a fall on his head. He’s got nine lives, and not lost half of them yet.’

‘If you go, uncle, mayn’t I go with you? I’m just spoiling for a journey; and it would be such larks to go out there with you, and see the mines and Dan, and hear all about it, and help. I can nurse. Can’t I, Rob?’ cried Teddy, in his most wheedlesome tones.

‘Pretty well. But if mother can’t spare you, I’m ready if uncle needs anyone,’ answered Rob, in his quiet way, looking much fitter for the trip than excitable Ted.

‘I can’t spare either of you. My boys get into trouble, unless I keep them close at home. I’ve no right to hold the others; but I won’t let you out of my sight, or something will happen. Never saw such a year, with wrecks and weddings and floods and engagements, and every sort of catastrophe!’ exclaimed Mrs Jo.

‘If you deal in girls and boys, you must expect this sort of thing, ma’am. The worst is over, I hope, till these lads begin to go off. Then I’ll stand by you; for you’ll need every kind of support and comfort, specially if Ted bolts early,’ laughed Mr Laurie, enjoying her lamentations.

‘I don’t think anything can surprise me now; but I am anxious about Dan, and feel that someone had better go to him. It’s a rough place out there, and he may need careful nursing. Poor lad, he seems to get a good many hard knocks! But perhaps he needs them as “a mellerin’ process”, as Hannah used to say.’

‘We shall hear from Demi before long, and then I’ll be off.’ With which cheerful promise Mr Laurie departed; and Ted, finding his mother firm, soon followed, to coax his uncle to take him.

Further inquiry confirmed and added interest to the news. Mr Laurie was off at once; and Ted went into town with him, still vainly imploring to be taken to his Dan. He was absent all day; but his mother said, calmly:

‘Only a fit of the sulks because he is thwarted. He’s safe with Tom or Demi, and will come home hungry and meek at night. I know him.’

But she soon found that she could still be surprised; for evening brought no Ted, and no one had seen him. Mr Bhaer was just setting off to find his lost son, when a telegram arrived, dated at one of the way-stations on Mr Laurie’s route:

Found Ted in the cars. Take him along. Write tomorrow.

T. LAURENCE

‘Ted bolted sooner than you expected, mother. Never mind–uncle will take good care of him, and Dan be very glad to see him,’ said Rob, as Mrs Jo sat, trying to realize that her youngest was actually on his way to the wild West.

‘Disobedient boy! He shall be severely punished, if I ever get him again. Laurie winked at this prank; I know he did. Just like him. Won’t the two rascals have a splendid time? Wish I was with them! Don’t believe that crazy boy took even a night-gown with him, or an overcoat. Well, there will be two patients for us to nurse when they get back, if they ever do. Those reckless express trains always go down precipices, and burn up, or telescope. Oh! my Ted, my precious boy, how can I let him go so far away from me?’

And mother-like, Mrs Jo forgot the threatened chastisement in tender lamentations over the happy scapegrace, now whizzing across the continent in high feather at the success of his first revolt. Mr Laurie was much amused at his insisting that those words, ‘when Ted bolts’, put the idea into his head; and therefore the responsibility rested upon his shoulders. He assumed it kindly from the moment he came upon the runaway asleep in a car, with no visible luggage but a bottle of wine for Dan and a blacking-brush for himself; and as Mrs Jo suspected, the ‘two rascals’ did have a splendid time. Penitent letters arrived in due season, and the irate parents soon forgot to chide in their anxiety about Dan, who was very ill, and did not know his friends for several days. Then he began to mend; and everyone forgave the bad boy when he proudly reported that the first conscious words Dan said were: ‘Hallo, Ted!’ with a smile of pleasure at seeing a familiar face bent over him.

‘Glad he went, and I won’t scold any more. Now, what shall we put in the box for Dan?’ And Mrs Jo worked off her impatience to get hold of the invalid by sending comforts enough for a hospital.

Cheering accounts soon began to come, and at length Dan was pronounced able to travel, but seemed in no haste to go home, though never tired of hearing his nurses talk of it.

‘Dan is strangely altered,’ wrote Laurie to Jo; ‘not by this illness alone, but by something which has evidently gone before. I don’t know what, and leave you to ask; but from his ravings when delirious I fear he has been in some serious trouble the past year. He seems ten years older, but improved, quieter, and so grateful to us. It is pathetic to see the hunger in his eyes as they rest on Ted, as if he couldn’t see enough of him. He says Kansas was a failure, but can’t talk much; so I bide my time. The people here love him very much, and he cares for that sort of thing now; used to scorn any show of emotion, you know; now he wants everyone to think well of him, and can’t do enough to win affection and respect. I may be all wrong. You will soon find out. Ted is in clover, and the trip has done him a world of good. Let me take him to Europe when we go? Apron-strings don’t agree with him any better than they did with me when I proposed to run away to Washington with you some century ago. Aren’t you sorry you didn’t?’

This private letter set Mrs Jo’s lively fancy in a ferment, and she imagined every known crime, affliction, and complication which could possibly have befallen Dan. He was too feeble to be worried with questions now, but she promised herself most interesting revelations when she got him safe at home; for the ‘firebrand’ was her most interesting boy. She begged him to come, and spent more time in composing a letter that should bring him, than she did over the most thrilling episodes in her ‘works’.

No one but Dan saw the letter; but it did bring him, and one November day Mr Laurie helped a feeble man out of a carriage at the door of Plumfield, and Mother Bhaer received the wanderer like a recovered son; while Ted, in a disreputable-looking hat and an astonishing pair of boots, performed a sort of war-dance round the interesting group.

‘Right upstairs and rest; I’m nurse now, and this ghost must eat before he talks to anyone,’ commanded Mrs Jo, trying not to show how shocked she was at this shorn and shaven, gaunt and pallid shadow of the stalwart man she parted with.

He was quite content to obey, and lay on the long lounge in the room prepared for him, looking about as tranquilly as a sick child restored to its own nursery and mother’s arms, while his new nurse fed and refreshed him, bravely controlling the questions that burned upon her tongue. Being weak and weary, he soon fell asleep; and then she stole away to enjoy the society of the ‘rascals’, whom she scolded and petted, pumped and praised, to her heart’s content.

‘Jo, I think Dan has committed some crime and suffered for it,’ said Mr Laurie, when Ted had departed to show his boots and tell glowing tales of the dangers and delights of the miners’ life to his mates. ‘Some terrible experience has come to the lad, and broken his spirit. He was quite out of his head when we arrived, and I took the watching, so I heard more of those sad wanderings than anyone else. He talked of the “warden”, some trail, a dead man, and Blair and Mason, and would keep offering me his hand, asking me if I would take it and forgive him. Once, when he was very wild, I held his arms, and he quieted in a moment, imploring me not to “put the handcuffs on”. I declare, it was quite awful sometimes to hear him in the night talk of old Plum and you, and beg to be let out and go home to die.’

‘He isn’t going to die, but live to repent of anything he may have done; so don’t harrow me up with these dark hints, Teddy. I don’t care if he’s broken the Ten Commandments, I’ll stand by him, and so will you, and we’ll set him on his feet and make a good man of him yet. I know he’s not spoilt, by the look in his poor face. Don’t say a word to anyone, and I’ll have the truth before long,’ answered Mrs Jo, still loyal to her bad boy, though much afflicted by what she had heard.

For some days Dan rested, and saw few people; then good care, cheerful surroundings, and the comfort of being at home began to tell, and he seemed more like himself, though still very silent as to his late experiences, pleading the doctor’s orders not to talk much. Everyone wanted to see him; but he shrank from any but old friends, and ‘wouldn’t lionize worth a cent’, Ted said, much disappointed that he could not show off his brave Dan.

‘Wasn’t a man there who wouldn’t have done the same, so why make a row over me?’ asked the hero, feeling more ashamed than proud of the broken arm, which looked so interesting in a sling.

‘But isn’t it pleasant to think that you saved twenty lives, Dan, and gave husbands, sons, and fathers back to the women who loved them?’ asked Mrs Jo one evening as they were alone together after several callers had been sent away.

‘Pleasant! it’s all that kept me alive, I do believe; yes, I’d rather have done it than be made president or any other big bug in the world. No one knows what a comfort it is to think I’ve saved twenty men to more than pay for–‘ There Dan stopped short, having evidently spoken out of some strong emotion to which his hearer had no key.

‘I thought you’d feel so. It is a splendid thing to save life at the risk of one’s own, as you did, and nearly lose it,’ began Mrs Jo, wishing he had gone on with that impulsive speech which was so like his old manner.

‘”He that loseth his life shall gain it”,’ muttered Dan, staring at the cheerful fire which lighted the room, and shone on his thin face with a ruddy glow.

Mrs Jo was so startled at hearing such words from his lips that she exclaimed joyfully:

‘Then you did read the little book I gave you, and kept your promise?’

‘I read it a good deal after a while. I don’t know much yet, but I’m ready to learn; and that’s something.’

‘It’s everything. Oh, my dear, tell me about it! I know something lies heavy on your heart; let me help you bear it, and so make the burden lighter.’

‘I know it would; I want to tell; but some things even you couldn’t forgive; and if you let go of me, I’m afraid I can’t keep afloat.’

‘Mothers can forgive anything! Tell me all, and be sure that I will never let you go, though the whole world should turn from you.’

Mrs Jo took one of the big wasted hands in both of hers and held it fast, waiting silently till that sustaining touch warmed poor Dan’s heart, and gave him courage to speak. Sitting in his old attitude, with his head in his hands, he slowly told it all, never once looking up till the last words left his lips.

‘Now you know; can you forgive a murderer, and keep a jail-bird in your house?’

Her only answer was to put her arms about him, and lay the shorn head on her breast, with eyes so full of tears they could but dimly see the hope and fear that made his own so tragical.

That was better than any words; and poor Dan clung to her in speechless gratitude, feeling the blessedness of mother love–that divine gift which comforts, purifies, and strengthens all who seek it. Two or three great, bitter drops were hidden in the little woollen shawl where Dan’s cheek rested, and no one ever knew how soft and comfortable it felt to him after the hard pillows he had known so long. Suffering of both mind and body had broken will and pride, and the lifted burden brought such a sense of relief that he paused a moment to enjoy it in dumb delight.

‘My poor boy, how you have suffered all this year, when we thought you free as air! Why didn’t you tell us, Dan, and let us help you? Did you doubt your friends?’ asked Mrs Jo, forgetting all other emotions in sympathy, as she lifted up the hidden face, and looked reproachfully into the great hollow eyes that met her own frankly now.

‘I was ashamed. I tried to bear it alone rather than shock and disappoint you, as I know I have, though you try not to show it. Don’t mind; I must get used to it’; and Dan’s eyes dropped again as if they could not bear to see the trouble and dismay his confession painted on his best friend’s face.

‘I am shocked and disappointed by the sin, but I am also very glad and proud and grateful that my sinner has repented, atoned, and is ready to profit by the bitter lesson. No one but Fritz and Laurie need ever know the truth; we owe it to them, and they will feel as I do,’ answered Mrs Jo, wisely thinking that entire frankness would be a better tonic than too much sympathy.

‘No, they won’t; men never forgive like women. But it’s right. Please tell ’em for me, and get it over. Mr Laurence knows it, I guess. I blabbed when my wits were gone; but he was very kind all the same. I can bear their knowing; but oh, not Ted and the girls!’ Dan clutched her arm with such an imploring face that she hastened to assure him no one should know except the two old friends, and he calmed down as if ashamed of his sudden panic.

‘It wasn’t murder, mind you, it was in self-defence; he drew first, and I had to hit him. Didn’t mean to kill him; but it doesn’t worry me as much as it ought, I’m afraid. I’ve more than paid for it, and such a rascal is better out of the world than in it, showing boys the way to hell. Yes, I know you think that’s awful in me; but I can’t help it. I hate a scamp as I do a skulking coyote, and always want to get a shot at ’em. Perhaps it would have been better if he had killed me; my life is spoilt.’

All the old prison gloom seemed to settle like a black cloud on Dan’s face as he spoke, and Mrs Jo was frightened at the glimpse it gave her of the fire through which he had passed to come out alive, but scarred for life. Hoping to turn his mind to happier things, she said cheerfully:

‘No, it isn’t; you have learned to value it more and use it better for this trial. It is not a lost year, but one that may prove the most helpful of any you ever know. Try to think so, and begin again; we will help, and have all the more confidence in you for this failure. We all do the same and struggle on.’

‘I never can be what I was. I feel about sixty, and don’t care for anything now I’ve got here. Let me stay till I’m on my legs, then I’ll clear out and never trouble you any more,’ said Dan despondently.

‘You are weak and low in your mind; that will pass, and by and by you will go to your missionary work among the Indians with all the old energy and the new patience, self-control, and knowledge you have gained. Tell me more about that good chaplain and Mary Mason and the lady whose chance word helped you so much. I want to know all about the trials of my poor boy.’

Won by her tender interest, Dan brightened up and talked on till he had poured out all the story of that bitter year, and felt better for the load he lifted off.

If he had known how it weighed upon his hearer’s heart, he would have held his peace; but she hid her sorrow till she had sent him to bed, comforted and calm; then she cried her heart out, to the great dismay of Fritz and Laurie, till they heard the tale and could mourn with her; after which they all cheered up and took counsel together how best to help this worst of all the ‘catastrophes’ the year had brought them.

Chapter 21

ASLAUGA’S KNIGHT

It was curious to see the change which came over Dan after that talk. A weight seemed off his mind; and though the old impetuous spirit flashed out at times, he seemed intent on trying to show his gratitude and love and honour to these true friends by a new humility and confidence very sweet to them, very helpful to him. After hearing the story from Mrs Jo, the Professor and Mr Laurie made no allusion to it beyond the hearty hand-grasp, the look of compassion, the brief word of good cheer in which men convey sympathy, and a redoubled kindness which left no doubt of pardon. Mr Laurie began at once to interest influential persons in Dan’s mission, and set in motion the machinery which needs so much oiling before anything can be done where Government is concerned. Mr Bhaer, with the skill of a true teacher, gave Dan’s hungry mind something to do, and helped him understand himself by carrying on the good chaplain’s task so paternally that the poor fellow often said he felt as if he had found a father. The boys took him to drive, and amused him with their pranks and plans; while the women, old and young, nursed and petted him till he felt like a sultan with a crowd of devoted slaves, obedient to his lightest wish. A very little of this was enough for Dan, who had a masculine horror of ‘molly-coddling’, and so brief an acquaintance with illness that he rebelled against the doctor’s orders to keep quiet; and it took all Mrs Jo’s authority and the girls’ ingenuity to keep him from leaving his sofa long before strained back and wounded head were well. Daisy cooked for him; Nan attended to his medicines; Josie read aloud to while away the long hours of inaction that hung so heavily on his hands; while Bess brought all her pictures and casts to amuse him, and, at his special desire, set up a modelling-stand in his parlour and began to mould the buffalo head he gave her. Those afternoons seemed the pleasantest part of his day; and Mrs Jo, busy in her study close by, could see the friendly trio and enjoy the pretty pictures they made. The girls were much flattered by the success of their efforts, and exerted themselves to be very entertaining, consulting Dan’s moods with the feminine tact most women creatures learn before they are out of pinafores. When he was gay, the room rang with laughter; when gloomy, they read or worked in respectful silence till their sweet patience cheered him up again; and when in pain they hovered over him like ‘a couple of angels’, as he said. He often called Josie ‘little mother’, but Bess was always ‘Princess’; and his manner to the two cousins was quite different. Josie sometimes fretted him with her fussy ways, the long plays she liked to read, and the maternal scoldings she administered when he broke the rules; for having a lord of creation in her power was so delightful to her that she would have ruled him with a rod of iron if he had submitted. To Bess, in her gentler ministrations, he never showed either impatience or weariness, but obeyed her least word, exerted himself to seem well in her presence, and took such interest in her work that he lay looking at her with unwearied eyes; while Josie read to him in her best style unheeded.

Mrs Jo observed this, and called them ‘Una and the Lion’, which suited them very well, though the lion’s mane was shorn, and Una never tried to bridle him. The elder ladies did their part in providing delicacies and supplying all his wants; but Mrs Meg was busy at home, Mrs Amy preparing for the trip to Europe in the spring, and Mrs Jo hovering on the brink of a ‘vortex’–for the forthcoming book had been sadly delayed by the late domestic events. As she sat at her desk, settling papers or meditatively nibbling her pen while waiting for the divine afflatus to descend upon her, she often forgot her fictitious heroes and heroines in studying the live models before her, and thus by chance looks, words, and gestures discovered a little romance unsuspected by anyone else.

The portiere between the rooms was usually drawn aside, giving a view of the group in the large bay-window–Bess at one side, in her grey blouse, busy with her tools; Josie at the other side with her book; and between, on the long couch, propped with many cushions, lay Dan in a many-hued eastern dressing-gown presented by Mr Laurie and worn to please the girls, though the invalid much preferred an old jacket ‘with no confounded tail to bother over’. He faced Mrs Jo’s room, but never seemed to see her, for his eyes were on the slender figure before him, with the pale winter sunshine touching her golden head, and the delicate hands that shaped the clay so deftly. Josie was just visible, rocking violently in a little chair at the head of the couch, and the steady murmur of her girlish voice was usually the only sound that broke the quiet of the room, unless a sudden discussion arose about the book or the buffalo.

Something in the big eyes, bigger and blacker than ever in the thin white face, fixed, so steadily on one object, had a sort of fascination for Mrs Jo after a time, and she watched the changes in them curiously; for Dan’s mind was evidently not on the story, and he often forgot to laugh or exclaim at the comic or exciting crises. Sometimes they were soft and wistful, and the watcher was very glad that neither damsel caught that dangerous look for when they spoke it vanished; sometimes it was full of eager fire, and the colour came and went rebelliously, in spite of his attempt to hide it with an impatient gesture of hand or head; but oftenest it was dark, and sad, and stern, as if those gloomy eyes looked out of captivity at some forbidden light or joy. This expression came so often that it worried Mrs Jo, and she longed to go and ask him what bitter memory overshadowed those quiet hours. She knew that his crime and its punishment must lie heavy on his mind; but youth, and time, and new hopes would bring comfort, and help to wear away the first sharpness of the prison brand. It lifted at other times, and seemed almost forgotten when he joked with the boys, talked with old friends, or enjoyed the first snows as he drove out every fair day. Why should the shadow always fall so darkly on him in the society of these innocent and friendly girls? They never seemed to see it, and if either looked or spoke, a quick smile came like a sunburst through the clouds to answer them. So Mrs Jo went on watching, wondering, and discovering, till accident confirmed her fears.

Josie was called away one day, and Bess, tired of working, offered to take her place if he cared for more reading.

‘I do; your reading suits me better than Jo’s. She goes so fast my stupid head gets in a muddle and soon begins to ache. Don’t tell her; she’s a dear little soul, and so good to sit here with a bear like me.’

The smile was ready as Bess went to the table for a new book, the last story being finished.

‘You are not a bear, but very good and patient, we think. It is always hard for a man to be shut up, mamma says, and must be terrible for you, who have always been so free.’

If Bess had not been reading titles she would have seen Dan shrink as if her last words hurt him. He made no answer; but other eyes saw and understood why he looked as if he would have liked to spring up and rush away for one of his long races up the hill, as he used to do when the longing for liberty grew uncontrollable. Moved by a sudden impulse, Mrs Jo caught up her work-basket and went to join her neighbours, feeling that a non-conductor might be needed; for Dan looked like a thundercloud full of electricity.

‘What shall we read, Aunty? Dan doesn’t seem to care. You know his taste; tell me something quiet and pleasant and short. Josie will be back soon,’ said Bess, still turning over the books piled on the centre-table.

Before Mrs Jo could answer, Dan pulled a shabby little volume from under his pillow, and handing it to her said: ‘Please read the third one; it’s short and pretty–I’m fond of it.’ The book opened at the right place, as if the third story had been often read, and Bess smiled as she saw the name.

‘Why, Dan, I shouldn’t think you’d care for this romantic German tale. There is fighting in it; but it is very sentimental, if I remember rightly.’

‘I know it; but I’ve read so few stories, I like the simple ones best. Had nothing else to read sometimes; I guess I know it all by heart, and never seem to be tired of those fighting fellows, and the fiends and angels and lovely ladies. You read “Aslauga’s Knight”, and see if you don’t like it. Edwald was rather too soft for my fancy; but Froda was first-rate and the spirit with the golden hair always reminded me of you.’

As Dan spoke Mrs Jo settled herself where she could watch him in the glass, and Bess took a large chair facing him, saying, as she put up her hands to retie the ribbon that held the cluster of thick, soft curls at the back of her head:

‘I hope Aslauga’s hair wasn’t as troublesome as mine, for it’s always tumbling down. I’ll be ready in a minute.’

‘Don’t tie it up; please let it hang. I love to see it shine that way. It will rest your head, and be just right for the story, Goldilocks,’ pleaded Dan, using the childish name and looking more like his boyish self than he had done for many a day.

Bess laughed, shook down her pretty hair, and began to read, glad to hide her face a little; for compliments made her shy, no matter who paid them. Dan listened intently on; and Mrs Jo, with eyes that went often from her needle to the glass, could see, without turning, how he enjoyed every word as if it had more meaning for him than for the other listeners. His face brightened wonderfully, and soon wore the look that came when anything brave or beautiful inspired and touched his better self. It was Fouque’s charming story of the knight Froda, and the fair daughter of Sigurd, who was a sort of spirit, appearing to her lover in hours of danger and trial, as well as triumph and joy, till she became his guide and guard, inspiring him with courage, nobleness, and truth, leading him to great deeds in the field, sacrifices for those he loved, and victories over himself by the gleaming of her golden hair, which shone on him in battle, dreams, and perils by day and night, till after death he finds the lovely spirit waiting to receive and to reward him.