Chapter: XLI. LEARNING TO FORGET.


                          


Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till
long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the
lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded
themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon
it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of
it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to
his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the
old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully,
and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman
would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back
after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the
longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the
words that had made the deepest impression, "I despise you;" "Go and do
something splendid that will _make_ her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
himself to confess that he _had_ been selfish and lazy; but then when a
man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries
till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were
quite dead now; and, though he should never cease to be a faithful
mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo
_wouldn't_ love him, but he might _make_ her respect and admire him by
doing something which should prove that a girl's "No" had not spoilt his
life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy's advice was quite
unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted
affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was
ready to "hide his stricken heart, and still toil on."

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love-sorrow in music, and compose a Requiem which
should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore
the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody,
and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends,
and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
But, whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music
too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem
was beyond him, just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in
working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying; for often in the
middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing
tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the
stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the
time being.

Then he tried an Opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning;
but here, again, unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned
traitor; and, as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would
only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in
the most unsentimental aspects,--beating mats with her head tied up in
a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa-pillow, or throwing cold
water over his passion _à la_ Gummidge,--and an irresistible laugh
spoilt the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be
put into the Opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless
that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a
distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,
was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his
mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and
blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he
took her for his heroine, and grew quite fond of her, as well he might;
for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted
her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal
woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he
sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get new ideas
and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state
that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was
conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's
genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of
it," he said, with a secret suspicion, all the while, that it wasn't
genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to
some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory
life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and
body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that every one who loved
music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas,
splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,
played a few of the best parts, sat staring up at the busts of
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again; then
suddenly he tore up his music-sheets, one by one, and, as the last
fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself,--

"She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That
music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I
won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
to work for his daily bread. Now, if ever, occurred an eligible
opportunity for "going to the devil," as he once forcibly expressed it,
for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially
fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow
had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood
them pretty well; for, much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith
and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire
to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,
and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it; boys
will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not
expect miracles." I dare say _you_ don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true
nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion
that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the
better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must; but
mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and
keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing
that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which
make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it _is_ a feminine delusion,
leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and
the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter
all our hopes of the brave, tender-hearted little lads, who still love
their mothers better than themselves, and are not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb
all his powers for years; but, to his great surprise, he discovered it
grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with
himself, and couldn't understand it; but these hearts of ours are
curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in
spite of us. Laurie's heart _wouldn't_ ache; the wound persisted in
healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and, instead of trying to
forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this
turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of
disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous
blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but
they refused to burst into a blaze: there was only a comfortable glow
that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he
was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly
subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and
resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a
brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.

As the word "brotherly" passed through his mind in one of these
reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was
before him:--

"Well, he was a great man; and when he couldn't have one sister he took
the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them; and the next
instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,--

"No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if
that fails, why, then--"

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the
least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she, and let
him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing,
but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It
came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never
wished to hear the word "love" again. Then she begged him to be happy
with somebody else, but always to keep a little corner of his heart for
his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy
that Beth was worse; she was coming home in the spring, and there was no
need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough,
please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel
lonely, homesick, or anxious.

"So I will, at once. Poor little girl; it will be a sad going home for
her, I'm afraid;" and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had
been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks
before.

But he did not write the letter that day; for, as he rummaged out his
best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling
about in one part of the desk, among bills, passports, and business
documents of various kinds, were several of Jo's letters, and in another
compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her
blue ribbons, and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away
inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered
up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small
drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his
finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the
drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if
there had been a funeral; and, though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in
writing letters to charming young ladies.

     [Illustration: Turning the ring thoughtfully upon his finger]

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy
_was_ homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and
fro, with unfailing regularity, all through the early spring. Laurie
sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris,
hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to
Nice, but would not till he was asked; and Amy would not ask him, for
just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her
rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of "our boy."

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer "Yes, thank you;" but now she said, "No, thank you,"
kindly but steadily; for, when the time came, her courage failed her,
and she found that something more than money and position was needed to
satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes
and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I
fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them,
kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in
look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to
remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so
unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature; she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as
she did to be a lovable woman; she was so glad he didn't hate her for
the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully, and was
kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters
were very irregular, and were not half so satisfactory as his when they
did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the
poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being
stony-hearted. She ought to have made an effort, and tried to love him;
it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have
such a dear boy care for them; but Jo never would act like other girls,
so there was nothing to do but be very kind, and treat him like a
brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured
now; she asked his opinion on all subjects; she was interested in
everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him
two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and
captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are
complimented by having their letters carried about in their sisters'
pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when
long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of
these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale
and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went
out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she
came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours,
with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched
any fancy that occurred to her,--a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a
young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a
curly-haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ball-room on the
arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the
last fashion in art, which was safe, but not altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred; and, finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what
she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to
Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he
said to himself, with a venerable air,--

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been
through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa, and enjoyed Amy's letter
luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home; but
the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the
next found her, the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met
her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they
had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian
lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree
that she should not shorten her visit, for, since it was too late to say
good-by to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow.
But her heart was very heavy; she longed to be at home, and every day
looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort
her.

He did come very soon; for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he
read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow-pedestrians,
and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow,
hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well; and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living _en
pension_. The _garçon_ was in despair that the whole family had gone to
take a promenade on the lake; but no, the blond mademoiselle might be in
the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting
down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait
even "a flash of time," and, in the middle of the speech, departed to
find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low
wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console
herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day,
leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking of Beth, and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not
hear him cross the court-yard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway
that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute,
looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen
before,--the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely
suggested love and sorrow,--the blotted letters in her lap, the black
ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face;
even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for
he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had
any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at
rest the minute she looked up and saw him; for, dropping everything, she
ran to him, exclaiming, in a tone of unmistakable love and longing,--

"O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!"

          [Illustration: O Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come]

I think everything was said and settled then; for, as they stood
together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down
protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and
sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only
woman in the world who could fill Jo's place, and make him happy. He did
not tell her so; but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place; and, while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry
well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As
he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the
recollection of her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn't help it; I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to
see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was
beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak
quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth; but I can only feel, and--" He could
not get any further, for he, too, turned bashful all of a sudden, and
did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his
shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare; so took
her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than
words.

"You needn't say anything; this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is
well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back; but I dread the going home,
much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes
me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right
back, need you?"

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind; but you seem like one of the
family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child, whose heart was full,
that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what
she wanted,--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation
she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half-sick! I'm
going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk
about with me; the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in
the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on
her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk, under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon
his legs; and Amy found it very pleasant to have a strong arm to lean
upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk
delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but
the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of
their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked
and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which
gave such a charm to time and place; and when an unromantic dinner-bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and
sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it
all,--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I
never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment; but cordially urged Laurie to stay, and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility; and, as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with
more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded; at Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying, in the
most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did, and followed
his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was
owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a
like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer
views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills; the fresh
winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists;
the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender
hopes, and happy thoughts; the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of
the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them,
saying, "Little children, love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that
Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little
while to recover from his surprise at the rapid cure of his first, and,
as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself
for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost
the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been
impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His
first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon
it as if through a long vista of years, with a feeling of compassion
blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of
the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful
when the pain was over. His second wooing he resolved should be as calm
and simple as possible; there was no need of having a scene, hardly any
need of telling Amy that he loved her; she knew it without words, and
had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that
no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even
Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be
wary and slow in making a second trial; so Laurie let the days pass,
enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word
that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the _dénouement_ would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner; but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was
settled on the lake, at noonday, in a few blunt words. They had been
floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny
Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the
Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon
the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake
below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged
gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his "Héloise."
Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love-story, and each
privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had
been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell
between them, and, when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars,
with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the
sake of saying something,--

"You must be tired; rest a little, and let me row; it will do me good;
for, since you came, I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I'm not tired; but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room
enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't
trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third
of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed
as well as she did many other things; and, though she used both hands,
and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly
through the water.

               [Illustration: How well we pull together]

"How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence
just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
_tableau_ of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected
in the lake.

 Learning to Forget Amy's lecture did make Laurie realize that he had been lazy and selfish. He goes to Vienna to try to earn Jo's respect, if not her love, by writing a Requiem or an opera. He finds, though, that tomboy Jo makes a difficult heroine, and instead uses memories of Amy as his model. Yet after attending an opera by Mozart, Laurie agrees with Amy that talent is not genius, becomes humble, and accepts that he will not be a great musician. Having given up his dream, he wonders what to do next. During this time, he finds himself forgetting his romantic love of Jo, feeling only a brotherly warmth toward her, despite all his sincerest intentions to love her all his life. He writes her to ask, one last time, if she will have him, and her response confirms that she never will. She urges Laurie to attend to Amy, for whom it is difficult to be far from home with Beth so sick. After finally saying goodbye to his love for Jo, Laurie begins a correspondence with Amy, who is indeed homesick, and they write to one another often. Laurie leaves Vienna and goes to Paris, hoping that Amy will ask him to visit Nice. Amy wishes to see Laurie, but does not invite him, for Fred Vaughn has returned. Troubled by Laurie's view of her potential engagement, and her own misgivings, Amy found herself declining Fred's offer, to her own surprise. She enjoys writing to Laurie very much, both of them cherishing each other's letters in ways they feel are brotherly and sisterly, but are truly romantic. Laurie is relieved to know that Fred has gone to Egypt, understanding that Amy turned him down. Amy is in Vevey with the Carrols when she learns that Beth has died. Laurie goes to her right away, and finds her sitting in a garden, a rare chance to see Amy's tender side. Amy runs to Laurie when she sees him, and as they embrace, both feel the truth, that they love each other, but they do not speak of it. They are great comforts to each other in this sorrowful time, and Aunt Carrol discretely encourages the match. Laurie and Amy are very active in Vevey, and Amy admires the change wrought in him. Laurie feels guilty at first for replacing Jo with Amy, but he feels his new love is genuine, and waits for the time to say something. That time comes when they are rowing together on a lake, very simply and beautifully, and Amy accepts

