Chapter: XXXVI. BETH'S SECRET.


                             


When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in
Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too
gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by
absence, it was very plain; and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she
saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but little thinner than in
the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if
the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining
through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw
and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression
lost much of its power; for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt
that she was better; and, presently, in other cares, Jo for a time
forgot her fear.

But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety
returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven;
but when she showed her savings and proposed the mountain trip, Beth had
thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home.
Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and, as
grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth
down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and
let the fresh sea-breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.

It was not a fashionable place, but, even among the pleasant people
there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care
for any one else; so they were all in all to each other, and came and
went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble
one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long
separation was not far away.

They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it; for often between ourselves
and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart
and Beth's; but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed
something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She
wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see
what she saw; and, during the quiet weeks, when the shadow grew so plain
to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would
tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if
her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing
through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks,
with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her,
and the sea made music at her feet.

     [Illustration: With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew
                        healthfully over her]

One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still; and,
putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to
see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not
find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands
seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been
gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was
slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened
their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her
eyes were too dim for seeing, and, when they cleared, Beth was looking
up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,--

"Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I
couldn't."

There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even
tears; for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker,
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about
her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

"I've known it for a good while, dear, and, now I'm used to it, it isn't
hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don't be troubled
about me, because it's best; indeed it is."

"Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel
it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing
to see or say that it _was_ best, but glad to know that Laurie had no
part in Beth's trouble.

"Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But
when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was
hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo."

"O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How
could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?"

Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of
the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say
good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

"Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn't sure, no one
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to
frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and
you so happy with Laurie,--at least, I thought so then."

"And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I
couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain,
and added softly,--

"Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor
little heart full of love-lornity all that while."

"Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as
innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how
can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I
hope he truly will be, sometime."

"Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You _must_ get well."

"I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel
more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."

"It _shall_ be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against
it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways, it can't
be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor
Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than
Beth's.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself
in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or
protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave
her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death.
Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to
God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and
they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and
the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only
loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to
the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned,
but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm
glad to go," for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I
try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave
of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,--

"You'll tell them this when we go home?"

"I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it seemed
to her that Beth changed every day.

"Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for
me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and
mother, won't you, Jo?"

"If I can; but, Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe that it
_is_ a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo, trying to
speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,--

"I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try, to any one but
you, because I can't speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to say
that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm
not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I'd do when
I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and
the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven."

Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but the
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth watched it
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little
gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, "peeping" softly to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite close to Beth,
looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone, dressing
its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and felt comforted, for
the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship, and remind her that
a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.

"Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the
gulls: they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding
little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer; and mother
said they reminded her of me,--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always
near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of
theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the
wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the
turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up
among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear
little girl! she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender; and
no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall
see her again, but she seems _so_ far away."

"She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to
see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change
was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought
aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.

"Jo, dear, don't hope any more; it won't do any good, I'm sure of that.
We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll
have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go
out easily, if you help me."

Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss, she
dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.

She was right: there was no need of any words when they got home, for
father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be saved
from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed,
saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went down, she found
that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her
father stood leaning his head on the mantel-piece, and did not turn as
she came in; but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and
Jo went to comfort her without a word.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]




             [Illustration: He hurried forward to meet her]

 When Jo comes home from New York, she is shocked by how much sicker Beth seems. At first Jo forgets about Beth's illness because she's caught up with Laurie's proposal, but after Laurie leaves she notices again. Jo takes Beth on a trip to the seashore, hoping the nice weather and the sea air will help her get better. This was a pretty common nineteenth-century idea - people often went to the coast or to a warmer climate when they were sick. Jo and Beth spend several weeks at the seaside together. Jo takes care of Beth, and the sisters ignore the outside world. Jo wonders how her parents haven't noticed that Beth seems to be dying. She hopes they'll notice for themselves when she and Beth return home. One day, Beth begins to talk to Jo about it. She figures out that Jo has realized she's dying, and says she's glad Jo knows. As the sisters talk about Beth's death, Jo realizes that Beth was never lovesick for Laurie - she was just grieving because she discovered that she was dying. Beth says that she's reconciled herself to it. Jo insists that Beth can get well and says that nineteen is too young to die. Beth, however, is convinced that she is dying and just focuses on her faith. Beth makes Jo promise to tell their parents about her condition. Jo does. Beth tells Jo that she thinks she wasn't meant to live for very long. She never had dreams of getting married or doing something ambitious with her life. Beth watches the birds outside her window. She uses the birds as a metaphor for herself and her sisters - she is like a peep, a docile bird that stays near the shore and sings, just the way she likes to stay at home and take care of the family. Beth thinks that Jo is like a gull, strong and wild, Meg a turtledove, the symbol of a lover, and Amy a lark, flying high but also returning to the nest. We think this novel is like an extra spoonful of sugar in a jar of honey - a little too much. Jo promises to help make Beth's last days happy and gives her sister a kiss. When Jo and Beth return home, their parents realize that Beth is dying. Jo comforts them without words.

