Chapter: XXXII. TENDER TROUBLES.


                            


"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth."

"Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."

"It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure
there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is."

"What makes you think so, mother?"

"She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as
she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she
sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in
her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries
me."

"Have you asked her about it?"

"I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or
looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's
confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long."

Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed
quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after
sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,--

"I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have
hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to
explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and
treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."

"So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother,
with a sigh and a smile.

"Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of
worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise
never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."

"It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home,
now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon;
but when the tug comes, you are always ready."

"Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one
scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I
feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the
family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if
anything is amiss at home, I'm your man."

"I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little
heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let
her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get
quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world."

"Happy woman! I've got heaps."

"My dear, what are they?"

"I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not
very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod
which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at
least.

While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and,
after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which
seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue
to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the
rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she
and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on
her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's
work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand,
in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal
landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic
blackbird, and a voice called out,--

           [Illustration: She leaned her head upon her hands]

"All serene! Coming in to-night."

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by
till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,--

"How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."

"Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright
color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a
tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced
apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate,
apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo
began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than
once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her
own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring
something about needing more paper.

"Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own
room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had
just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I
wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden
thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He
must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the
picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a
mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one
that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for
a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her
wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite,
"No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability
than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in
that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have
it."

Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake
till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which
only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked
with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle,
but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he
cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had
prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than
ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and
scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the
various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender
passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the
immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated
"philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile
ready at the least sign of impending danger.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month;
but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much
amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair,
and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly
conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many
shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged
occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender
subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious,
and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a
blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight
confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the
eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred
imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former
could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were
less manageable.

Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo
watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not
got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in
the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But
having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at
a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course
of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on
the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all
sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never
disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested
on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she
listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting
cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his
ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as
Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that
she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he
dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little
absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity
that was really almost tender.

"Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed
about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make
life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each
other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the
rest of us were out of the way."

As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that
she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go?
and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat
down to settle that point.

Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad,
well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the
girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode
on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired
heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women.
They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always
been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned
the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly
horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this
repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of
defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.

Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep
aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days,
when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking
the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the
sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might
approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man,
woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to
barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before
a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the
sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed,
with a sigh of satisfaction,--

"Now, _this_ is filling at the price."

           [Illustration: Now, this is filling at the price]

"No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late,
there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared
in a most mysterious manner.

"Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the
week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it."

"Beth will pet you; I'm busy."

"No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing,
unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate
your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"

Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard,
but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,--

"How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?"

"Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then."

"I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending
flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued
Jo reprovingly.

"Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me
send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have
a _went_."

"Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt
desperately, Teddy."

"I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll
merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if
all parties understand that it's only play."

"Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've
tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else
is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play
Mentor.

"Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it."

"Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I
suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others
to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."

"I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible,
straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of
herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on
at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure;
but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend
their ways, I fancy."

"They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows
get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you
behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they
keep it up, and then you blame them."

"Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We
don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully,
among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place
for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my
word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say
with our friend Cock Robin,--

        "'Out upon you, fie upon you,
           Bold-faced jig!'"

It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between
Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very
natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society
showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a
most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their
daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb
of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt,
and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in
modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said,
dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote
yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and
not waste your time with the silly ones."

"You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of
anxiety and merriment in his face.

"Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the
whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half
good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a
little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.

"That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite
new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel
round his finger.

"Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and
sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours."

"I'd rather stay here, thank you."

"Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since
you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a
woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of
his own.

"Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious
tweak at the tassel.

"Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow.

He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of
bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young
gentleman had departed in high dudgeon.

          [Illustration: Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee]

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound
of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious
inquiry, "What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth.

"Is it the old pain, my precious?"

"No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her
tears.

"Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other."

"You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and,
clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was
frightened.

"Where is it? Shall I call mother?"

Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went
involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other
she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't
tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll
be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will."

Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot
forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to
speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers,
cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she
believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her
tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?"

"Yes, Jo," after a long pause.

"Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not yet."

"Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always
glad to hear and help you, if they can."

"I know it. I'll tell you by and by."

"Is the pain better now?"

"Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!"

"Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you."

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite
herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and
a loving word can medicine most ills.

But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for
some days, she confided it to her mother.

"You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of
them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away
somewhere this winter for a change."

"Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a
double meaning.

With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I
feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I
am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up,
so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and
try my wings."

"Where will you hop?"

"To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know
Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her
children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I
should suit if I tried."

"My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs.
March looked surprised, but not displeased.

"It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your
friend,--the kindest soul that ever lived,--and would make things
pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no
one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not
ashamed of it."

"Nor I; but your writing?"

"All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new
ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home
quantities of material for my rubbish."

"I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden
fancy?"

"No, mother."

"May I know the others?"

Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in
her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie
is getting too fond of me."

"Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care
for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

"Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely
proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question."

"I'm glad of that, Jo."

"Why, please?"

"Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you
are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear
you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike
and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to
get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and
forbearance, as well as love."

"That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad
you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly
to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old
fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?"

"You are sure of his feeling for you?"

The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of
mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking
of first lovers,--

"I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a
great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything."

"I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."

Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat
would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will
rejoice that Annie still may hope."

"Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the
same in all,--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I
am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you
tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter.
Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I
indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems
brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?"

"Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I
said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story.

Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the
case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's
sake, Jo should go away for a time.

"Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll
run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think
I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to
her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of
this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the
sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity."

Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear
that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that
Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore.

The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs.
Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got
might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society
would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager
to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless
nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and
trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise he took it very quietly.
He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when
jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I
am; and I mean this one shall stay turned."

Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on
just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,--for Beth
seemed more cheerful,--and hoped she was doing the best for all.

"One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before
she left.

"You mean your papers?" asked Beth.

"No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you
sadly."

"It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague,
pet, and keep in order."

"I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked
at her so queerly.

When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a
bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and
bring you home."




  [Illustration: I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the
                                 seat]

 Tender Troubles Marmee notices that something is troubling Beth, for she has been quite sad, and asks Jo to find out Beth's secret. After observing her, Jo decides that Beth is in love with Laurie. Jo insists to herself that she will make Laurie love Beth back. In fact, Laurie has been trying to express his affections toward Jo, but she ignores or denies him. Jo hopes Laurie might learn to love Beth, particularly if Jo went away. While pondering what to do, Jo finds herself in a conversation with Laurie about flirting, which he does quite a bit, but does not admire in excess in others, and at which Jo is hopeless. Jo advises Laurie to devote himself to a modest girl - meaning Beth - once he is through with college and deserving of her. Laurie, thinking Jo means herself, is encouraged and humbled. He starts behaving more seriously and speaking of "turning a new leaf. That evening, Jo finds Beth crying herself to sleep over a new pain. She will not tell Jo what it is, for Jo can do nothing to help, but promises to tell her in time. Jo, believing Beth's heart is aching over Laurie, comforts her. The next day, Jo decides to spend the winter working as a teacher in a boardinghouse in New York for the daughters of Mrs. Kirke, one of Marmee's friends. Jo tells Marmee that she feels Laurie is getting too fond of her, and she does not return the feelings. Marmee is thankful for Jo's feelings, as she feels the two would be too strong-willed a match. Jo divulges that she thinks Beth might like Laurie, which Marmee does not believe, but still feels Jo should go away for Laurie's sake. Jo asks Beth to look after Laurie for her. Laurie simply tells Jo that going away will not do any good

