Of all the stories in the book this was the last one would have supposed Dan would like best, and even Mrs Jo was surprised at his perceiving the moral of the tale through the delicate imagery and romantic language by which it was illustrated. But as she looked and listened she remembered the streak of sentiment and refinement which lay concealed in Dan like the gold vein in a rock, making him quick to feel and to enjoy fine colour in a flower, grace in an animal, sweetness in women, heroism in men, and all the tender ties that bind heart to heart; though he was slow to show it, having no words to express the tastes and instincts which he inherited from his mother. Suffering of soul and body had tamed his stronger passions, and the atmosphere of love and pity now surrounding him purified and warmed his heart till it began to hunger for the food neglected or denied so long. This was plainly written in his too expressive face, as, fancying it unseen, he let it tell the longing after beauty, peace, and happiness embodied for him in the innocent fair girl before him.
The conviction of this sad yet natural fact came to Mrs Jo with a pang, for she felt how utterly hopeless such a longing was; since light and darkness were not farther apart than snow-white Bess and sin-stained Dan. No dream of such a thing disturbed the young girl, as her entire unconsciousness plainly showed. But how long would it be before the eloquent eyes betrayed the truth? And then what disappointment for Dan, what dismay for Bess, who was as cool and high and pure as her own marbles, and shunned all thought of love with maidenly reserve.
‘How hard everything is made for my poor boy! How can I spoil his little dream, and take away the spirit of good he is beginning to love and long for? When my own dear lads are safely settled I’ll never try another, for these things are heart-breaking, and I can’t manage any more,’ thought Mrs Jo, as she put the lining into Teddy’s coat-sleeve upside down, so perplexed and grieved was she at this new catastrophe.
The story was soon done, and as Bess shook back her hair, Dan asked as eagerly as a boy:
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Yes, it’s very pretty, and I see the meaning of it; but Undine was always my favourite.’
‘Of course, that’s like you–lilies and pearls and souls and pure water. Sintram used to be mine; but I took a fancy to this when I was–ahem–rather down on my luck one time, and it did me good, it was so cheerful and sort of spiritual in its meaning, you know.’
Bess opened her blue eyes in wonder at this fancy of Dan’s for anything ‘spiritual’; but she only nodded, saying: ‘Some of the little songs are sweet and might be set to music.’
Dan laughed; ‘I used to sing the last one to a tune of my own sometimes at sunset:
‘”Listening to celestial lays,
Bending thy unclouded gaze
On the pure and living light,
Thou art blest, Aslauga’s Knight!”
‘And I was,’ he added, under his breath, as he glanced towards the sunshine dancing on the wall.
‘This one suits you better now’; and glad to please him by her interest, Bess read in her soft voice:
‘”Healfast, healfast, ye hero wounds; O knight, be quickly strong!
Beloved strife
For fame and life,
Oh, tarry not too long!”‘
‘I’m no hero, never can be, and “fame and life” can’t do much for me. Never mind, read me that paper, please. This knock on the head has made a regular fool of me.’
Dan’s voice was gentle; but the light was gone out of his face now, and he moved restlessly as if the silken pillows were full of thorns. Seeing that his mood had changed, Bess quietly put down the book, took up the paper, and glanced along the columns for something to suit him.
‘You don’t care for the money market, I know, nor musical news. Here’s a murder; you used to like those; shall I read it? One man kills another–,’
‘No!’
Only a word, but it gave Mrs Jo a thrill, and for a moment she dared not glance at the tell-tale mirror. When she did Dan lay motionless with one hand over his eyes, and Bess was happily reading the art news to ears that never heard a word. Feeling like a thief who has stolen something very precious, Mrs Jo slipped away to her study, and before long Bess followed to report that Dan was fast asleep.
Sending her home, with the firm resolve to keep her there as much as possible, Mother Bhaer had an hour of serious thought all alone in the red sunset; and when a sound in the next room led her there, she found that the feigned sleep had become real repose; for Dan lay breathing heavily, with a scarlet spot on either cheek, and one hand clinched on his broad breast. Yearning over him with a deeper pity than ever before, she sat in the little chair beside him, trying to see her way out of this tangle, till his hand slipped down, and in doing so snapped a cord he wore about his neck and let a small case drop to the floor.
Mrs Jo picked it up, and as he did not wake, sat looking at it, idly wondering what charm it held; for the case was of Indian workmanship and the broken cord, of closely woven grass, sweet scented and pale yellow.
‘I won’t pry into any more of the poor fellow’s secrets. I’ll mend and put it back, and never let him know I’ve seen his talisman.’
As she spoke she turned the little wallet to examine the fracture, and a card fell into her lap. It was a photograph, cut to fit its covering, and two words were written underneath the face, ‘My Aslauga’. For an instant Mrs Jo fancied that it might be one of herself, for all the boys had them; but as the thin paper fell away, she saw the picture Demi took of Bess that happy summer day. There was no doubt now, and with a sigh she put it back, and was about to slip it into Dan’s bosom so that not even a stitch should betray her knowledge, when as she leaned towards him, she saw that he was looking straight at her with an expression that surprised her more than any of the strange ones she had ever seen in that changeful face before.
‘Your hand slipped down; it fell; I was putting it back,’ explained Mrs Jo, feeling like a naughty child caught in mischief.
‘You saw the picture?’
‘Yes.’
‘And know what a fool I am?’
‘Yes, Dan, and am so grieved–‘
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m all right–glad you know, though I never meant to tell you. Of course it is only a crazy fancy of mine, and nothing can ever come of it. Never thought there would. Good Lord! what could that little angel ever be to me but what she is–a sort of dream of all that’s sweet and good?’
More afflicted by the quiet resignation of his look and tone than by the most passionate ardour, Mrs Jo could only say, with a face full of sympathy:
‘It is very hard, dear, but there is no other way to look at it. You are wise and brave enough to see that, and to let the secret be ours alone.’
‘I swear I will! not a word nor a look if I can help it. No one guesses, and if it troubles no one, is there any harm in my keeping this, and taking comfort in the pretty fancy that kept me sane in that cursed place?’
Dan’s face was eager now, and he hid away the little worn case as if defying any hand to take it from him. Anxious to know everything before giving counsel or comfort, Mrs Jo said quietly:
‘Keep it, and tell me all about the “fancy”. Since I have stumbled on your secret, let me know how it came, and how I can help to make it lighter to bear.’
‘You’ll laugh; but I don’t mind. You always did find out our secrets and give us a lift. Well, I never cared much for books, you know; but down yonder when the devil tormented me I had to do something or go stark mad, so I read both the books you gave me. One was beyond me, till that good old man showed me how to read it; but the other, this one, was a comfort, I tell you. It amused me, and was as pretty as poetry. I liked ’em all, and most wore out Sintram. See how used up he is! Then I came to this, and it sort of fitted that other happy part of my life, last summer–here.’
Dan stopped a moment as the words lingered on his lips; then, with a long breath, went on, as if it was hard to lay bare the foolish little romance he had woven about a girl, a picture, and a child’s story there in the darkness of the place which was as terrible to him as Dante’s Inferno, till he found his Beatrice.
‘I couldn’t sleep, and had to think about something, so I used to fancy I was Folko, and see the shining of Aslauga’s hair in the sunset on the wall, the gum of the watchman’s lamp, and the light that came in at dawn. My cell was high. I could see a bit of sky; sometimes there was a star in it, and that was most as good as a face. I set great store by that patch of blue, and when a white cloud went by, I thought it was the prettiest thing in all this world. I guess I was pretty near a fool; but those thoughts and things helped me through, so they are all solemn true to me, and I can’t let them go. The dear shiny head, the white gown, the eyes like stars, and sweet, calm ways that set her as high above me as the moon in heaven. Don’t take it away! it’s only a fancy, but a man must love something, and I’d better love a spirit like her than any of the poor common girls who would care for me.’
The quiet despair in Dan’s voice pierced Mrs Jo to the heart; but there was no hope and she gave none. Yet she felt that he was right, and that his hapless affection might do more to uplift and purify him than any other he might know. Few women would care to marry Dan now, except such as would hinder, not help, him in the struggle which life would always be to him; and it was better to go solitary to his grave than become what she suspected his father had been–a handsome, unprincipled, and dangerous man, with more than one broken heart to answer for.
‘Yes, Dan, it is wise to keep this innocent fancy, if it helps and comforts you, till something more real and possible comes to make you happier. I wish I could give you any hope; but we both know that the dear child is the apple of her father’s eye, the pride of her mother’s heart, and that the most perfect lover they can find will hardly seem to them worthy of their precious daughter. Let her remain for you the high, bright star that leads you up and makes you believe in heaven.’ Mrs Jo broke down there; it seemed so cruel to destroy the faint hope Dan’s eyes betrayed, that she could not moralize when she thought of his hard life and lonely future. Perhaps it was the wisest thing she could have done, for in her hearty sympathy he found comfort for his own loss, and very soon was able to speak again in the manly tone of resignation to the inevitable that showed how honest was his effort to give up everything but the pale shadow of what, for another, might have been a happy possibility.
They talked long and earnestly in the twilight; and this second secret bound them closer than the first; for in it there was neither sin nor shame–only the tender pain and patience which has made saints and heroes of far worse men than our poor Dan. When at length they rose at the summons of a bell, all the sunset glory had departed, and in the wintry sky there hung one star, large, soft, and clear, above a snowy world. Pausing at the window before she dropped the curtains, Mrs Jo said cheerfully:
‘Come and see how beautiful the evening star is, since you love it so.’ And as he stood behind her, tall and pale, like the ghost of his former self, she added softly: ‘And remember, dear, if the sweet girl is denied you, the old friend is always here–to love and trust and pray for you.’
This time she was not disappointed; and had she asked any reward for many anxieties and cares, she received it when Dan’s strong arm came round her, as he said, in a voice which showed her that she had not laboured in vain to pluck her firebrand from the burning:
‘I never can forget that; for she’s helped to save my soul, and make me dare to look up there and say:
“God bless her!”‘
Chapter 22
POSITIVELY LAST APPEARANCE
‘Upon my word, I feel as if I lived in a powder-magazine, and don’t know which barrel will explode next, and send me flying,’ said Mrs Jo to herself next day, as she trudged up to Parnassus to suggest to her sister that perhaps the most charming of the young nurses had better return to her marble gods before she unconsciously added another wound to those already won by the human hero. She told no secrets; but a hint was sufficient; for Mrs Amy guarded her daughter as a pearl of great price, and at once devised a very simple means of escape from danger. Mr Laurie was going to Washington on Dan’s behalf, and was delighted to take his family with him when the idea was carelessly suggested. So the conspiracy succeeded finely; and Mrs Jo went home, feeling more like a traitor than ever. She expected an explosion; but Dan took the news so quietly, it was plain that he cherished no hope; and Mrs Amy was sure her romantic sister had been mistaken. If she had seen Dan’s face when Bess went to say good-bye, her maternal eye would have discovered far more than the unconscious girl did. Mrs Jo trembled lest he should betray himself; but he had learned self-control in a stern school, and would have got through the hard moment bravely, only, when he took both hands, saying heartily:
‘Good-bye, Princess. If we don’t meet again, remember your old friend Dan sometimes,’ she, touched by his late danger and the wistful look he wore, answered with unusual warmth: ‘How can I help it, when you make us all so proud of you? God bless your mission, and bring you safely home to us again!’
As she looked up at him with a face full of frank affection and sweet regret, all that he was losing rose so vividly before him that Dan could not resist the impulse to take the ‘dear goldy head’ between his hands and kiss it, with a broken ‘Good-bye’; then hurried back to his room, feeling as if it were the prison-cell again, with no glimpse of heaven’s blue to comfort him.
This abrupt caress and departure rather startled Bess; for she felt with a girl’s quick instinct that there was something in that kiss unknown before, and looked after him with sudden colour in her cheeks and new trouble in her eyes. Mrs Jo saw it, and fearing a very natural question answered it before it was put.
‘Forgive him, Bess. He has had a great trouble, and it makes him tender at parting with old friends; for you know he may never come back from the wild world he is going to.’
‘You mean the fall and danger of death?’ asked Bess, innocently.
‘No, dear; a greater trouble than that. But I cannot tell you any more–except that he has come through it bravely; so you may trust and respect him, as I do.’
‘He has lost someone he loved. Poor Dan! We must be very kind to him.’
Bess did not ask the question, but seemed content with her solution of the mystery–which was so true that Mrs Jo confirmed it by a nod, and let her go away believing that some tender loss and sorrow wrought the great change all saw in Dan, and made him so slow to speak concerning the past year.
But Ted was less easily satisfied, and this unusual reticence goaded him to desperation. His mother had warned him not to trouble Dan with questions till he was quite well; but this prospect of approaching departure made him resolve to have a full, clear, and satisfactory account of the adventures which he felt sure must have been thrilling, from stray words Dan let fall in his fever. So one day when the coast was clear, Master Ted volunteered to amuse the invalid, and did so in the following manner:
‘Look here, old boy, if you don’t want me to read, you’ve got to talk, and tell me all about Kansas, and the farms, and that part. The Montana business I know, but you seem to forget what went before. Brace up, and let’s have it,’ he began, with an abruptness which roused Dan from a brown study most effectually.
‘No, I don’t forget; it isn’t interesting to anyone but myself. I didn’t see any farms–gave it up,’ he said slowly.
‘Why?’
‘Other things to do.’
‘What?’
‘Well, brush-making for one thing.’
‘Don’t chaff a fellow. Tell true.’
‘I truly did.’
‘What for?’
‘To keep out of mischief, as much as anything.’
‘Well, of all the queer things–and you’ve done a lot–that’s the queerest,’ cried Ted, taken aback at this disappointing discovery. But he didn’t mean to give up yet, and began again.
‘What mischief, Dan?’
‘Never you mind. Boys shouldn’t bother.’
‘But I do want to know, awfully, because I’m your pal, and care for you no end. Always did. Come, now, tell me a good yarn. I love scrapes. I’ll be mum as an oyster if you don’t want it known.’
‘Will you?’ and Dan looked at him, wondering how the boyish face would change if the truth were suddenly told him.
‘I’ll swear it on locked fists, if you like. I know it was jolly, and I’m aching to hear.’
‘You are as curious as a girl. More than some–Josie and–and Bess never asked a question.’
‘They don’t care about rows and things; they liked the mine business, heroes, and that sort. So do I, and I’m as proud as Punch over it; but I see by your eyes that there was something else before that, and I’m bound to find out who Blair and Mason are, and who was hit and who ran away, and all the rest of it.’
‘What!’ cried Dan, in a tone that made Ted jump.
‘Well, you used to mutter about ’em in your sleep, and Uncle Laurie wondered. So did I; but don’t mind, if you can’t remember, or would rather not.’
‘What else did I say? Queer, what stuff a man will talk when his wits are gone.’
‘That’s all I heard; but it seemed interesting, and I just mentioned it, thinking it might refresh your memory a bit,’ said Teddy, very politely; for Dan’s frown was heavy at that moment.
It cleared off at this reply, and after a look at the boy squirming with suppressed impatience in his chair, Dan made up his mind to amuse him with a game of cross-purposes and half-truths, hoping to quench his curiosity, and so get peace.
‘Let me see; Blair was a lad I met in the cars, and Mason a poor fellow who was in a–well, a sort of hospital where I happened to be. Blair ran off to his brothers, and I suppose I might say Mason was hit, because he died there. Does that suit you?’
‘No, it doesn’t. Why did Blair run? and who hit the other fellow? I’m sure there was a fight somewhere, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes!
‘I guess I know what it was about.’
‘The devil, you do! Let’s hear you guess. Must be amusing,’ said Dan, affecting an ease he did not feel.
Charmed to be allowed to free his mind, Ted at once unfolded the boyish solution of the mystery which he had been cherishing, for he felt that there was one somewhere.
‘You needn’t say yes, if I guess right and you are under oath to keep silent. I shall know by your face, and never tell. Now see if I’m not right. Out there they have wild doings, and it’s my belief you were in some of ’em. I don’t mean robbing mails, and KluKluxing, and that sort of thing; but defending the settlers, or hanging some scamp, or even shooting a few, as a fellow must sometimes, in self-defence. Ah, ha! I’ve hit it, I see. Needn’t speak; I know the flash of your old eye, and the clench of your big fist.’ And Ted pranced with satisfaction.
‘Drive on, smart boy, and don’t lose the trail,’ said Dan, finding a curious sense of comfort in some of these random words, and longing, but not daring, to confirm the true ones. He might have confessed the crime, but not the punishment that followed, the sense of its disgrace was still so strong upon him.
‘I knew I should get it; can’t deceive me long,’ began Ted, with such an air of pride Dan could not help a short laugh.
‘It’s a relief, isn’t it, to have it off your mind? Now, just confide in me and it’s all safe, unless you’ve sworn not to tell.’
‘I have.’
‘Oh, well, then don’t’; and Ted’s face fell, but he was himself again in a moment and said, with the air of a man of the world: ‘It’s all right–I understand–honour binds–silence to death, etc. Glad you stood by your mate in the hospital. How many did you kill?’
‘Only one.’
‘Bad lot, of course?’
‘A damned rascal.’
‘Well, don’t look so fierce; I’ve no objection. Wouldn’t mind popping at some of those bloodthirsty blackguards myself. Had to dodge and keep quiet after it, I suppose.’
‘Pretty quiet for a long spell.’
‘Got off all right in the end, and headed for your mines and did that jolly brave thing. Now, I call that decidedly interesting and capital. I’m glad to know it; but I won’t blab.’
‘Mind you don’t. Look here. Ted, if you’d killed a man, would it trouble you–a bad one, I mean?’
The lad opened his mouth to say, ‘Not a bit,’ but checked that answer as if something in Dan’s face made him change his mind. ‘Well, if it was my duty in war or self-defence, I suppose I shouldn’t; but if I’d pitched into him in a rage, I guess I should be very sorry. Shouldn’t wonder if he sort of haunted me, and remorse gnawed me as it did Aram and those fellows. You don’t mind, do you? It was a fair fight, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, I was in the right; but I wish I’d been out of it. Women don’t see it that way, and look horrified at such things. Makes it hard; but it don’t matter.’
‘Don’t tell ’em; then they can’t worry,’ said Ted, with the nod of one versed in the management of the sex.
‘Don’t intend to. Mind you keep your notions to yourself, for some of ’em are wide of the mark. Now you may read if you like’; and there the talk ended; but Ted took great comfort in it, and looked as wise as an owl afterwards.
A few quiet weeks followed, during which Dan chafed at the delay; and when at length word came that his credentials were ready, he was eager to be off, to forget a vain love in hard work, and live for others, since he might not for himself.
So one wild March morning our Sintram rode away, with horse and hound, to face again the enemies who would have conquered him, but for Heaven’s help and human pity.
‘Ah, me! it does seem as if life was made of partings, and they get harder as we go on,’ sighed Mrs Jo, a week later, as she sat in the long parlour at Parnassus one evening, whither the family had gone to welcome the travellers back.
‘And meetings too, dear; for here we are, and Nat is on his way at last. Look for the silver lining, as Marmee used to say, and be comforted,’ answered Mrs Amy, glad to be at home and find no wolves prowling near her sheepfold.
‘I’ve been so worried lately, I can’t help croaking. I wonder what Dan thought at not seeing you again? It was wise; but he would have enjoyed another look at home faces before he went into the wilderness,’ said Mrs Jo regretfully.
‘Much better so. We left notes and all we could think of that he might need, and slipped away before he came. Bess really seemed relieved; I’m sure I was’; and Mrs Amy smoothed an anxious line out of her white forehead, as she smiled at her daughter, laughing happily among her cousins.
Mrs Jo shook her head as if the silver lining of that cloud was hard to find; but she had no time to croak again, for just then Mr Laurie came in looking well pleased at something.
‘A new picture has arrived; face towards the music-room, good people, and tell me how you like it. I call it “Only a fiddler”, after Andersen’s story. What name will you give it?’
As he spoke he threw open the wide doors, and just beyond they saw a young man standing, with a beaming face, and a violin in his hand. There was no doubt about the name to this picture, and with the cry ‘Nat! Nat!’ there was a general uprising. But Daisy reached him first, and seemed to have lost her usual composure somewhere on the way, for she clung to him, sobbing with the shock of a surprise and joy too great for her to bear quietly. Everything was settled by that tearful and tender embrace, for, though Mrs Meg speedily detached her daughter, it was only to take her place; while Demi shook Nat’s hand with brotherly warmth, and Josie danced round them like Macbeth’s three witches in one, chanting in her most tragic tones:
‘Chirper thou wast; second violin thou art; first thou shalt be. Hail, all hail!’
This caused a laugh, and made things gay and comfortable at once. Then the usual fire of questions and answers began, to be kept up briskly while the boys admired Nat’s blond beard and foreign clothes, the girls his improved appearance–for he was ruddy with good English beef and beer, and fresh with the sea-breezes which had blown him swiftly home–and the older folk rejoiced over his prospects. Of course all wanted to hear him play; and when tongues tired, he gladly did his best for them, surprising the most critical by his progress in music even more than by the energy and self-possession which made a new man of bashful Nat. By and by when the violin–that most human of all instruments–had sung to them the loveliest songs without words, he said, looking about him at these old friends with what Mr Bhaer called a ‘feeling-full’ expression of happiness and content:
‘Now let me play something that you will all remember though you won’t love it as I do’; and standing in the attitude which Ole Bull has immortalized, he played the street melody he gave them the first night he came to Plumfield. They remembered it, and joined in the plaintive chorus, which fitly expressed his own emotions:
‘Oh my heart is sad and weary
Everywhere I roam,
Longing for the old plantation
And for the old folks at home.’
‘Now I feel better,’ said Mrs Jo, as they all trooped down the hill soon after. ‘Some of our boys are failures, but I think this one is going to be a success, and patient Daisy a happy girl at last. Nat is your work, Fritz, and I congratulate you heartily.’
‘Ach, we can but sow the seed and trust that it falls on good ground. I planted, perhaps, but you watched that the fowls of the air did not devour it, and brother Laurie watered generously; so we will share the harvest among us, and be glad even for a small one, heart’s-dearest.’
‘I thought the seed had fallen on very stony ground with my poor Dan; but I shall not be surprised if he surpasses all the rest in the real success of life, since there is more rejoicing over one repentant sinner than many saints,’ answered Mrs Jo, still clinging fast to her black sheep although a whole flock of white ones trotted happily before her.
It is a strong temptation to the weary historian to close the present tale with an earthquake which should engulf Plumfield and its environs so deeply in the bowels of the earth that no youthful Schliemann could ever find a vestige of it. But as that somewhat melodramatic conclusion might shock my gentle readers, I will refrain, and forestall the usual question, ‘How did they end?’ by briefly stating that all the marriages turned out well. The boys prospered in their various callings; so did the girls, for Bess and Josie won honours in their artistic careers, and in the course of time found worthy mates. Nan remained a busy, cheerful, independent spinster, and dedicated her life to her suffering sisters and their children, in which true woman’s work she found abiding happiness. Dan never married, but lived, bravely and usefully, among his chosen people till he was shot defending them, and at last lay quietly asleep in the green wilderness he loved so well, with a lock of golden hair upon his breast, and a smile on his face which seemed to say that Aslauga’s Knight had fought his last fight and was at peace. Stuffy became an alderman, and died suddenly of apoplexy after a public dinner. Dolly was a society man of mark till he lost his money, when he found congenial employment in a fashionable tailoring establishment. Demi became a partner, and lived to see his name above the door, and Rob was a professor at Laurence College; but Teddy eclipsed them all by becoming an eloquent and famous clergyman, to the great delight of his astonished mother. And now, having endeavoured to suit everyone by many weddings, few deaths, and as much prosperity as the eternal fitness of things will permit, let the music stop, the lights die out, and the curtain fall for ever on the March family.