Chapter: VIII. JO MEETS APOLLYON.


                           


"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one
Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an
air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

"Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply.

Now if there _is_ anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are
young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is
still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined
to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who
never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I
should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over her
piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am _so_ lonely."

"I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke in
impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't
go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it."

"You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were
whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you
stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?"

"Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering."

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her
pocket.

"I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven
Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I _shall_ go, for mother
said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to
tell me in time."

"Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly.
"Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well
enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go
with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time."

"I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let
me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for
some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as
pathetic as she could.

"Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle
her up well," began Meg.

"If _she_ goes _I_ sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it
will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I
should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo
crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child,
when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying,
in her most aggravating way, "I _shall_ go; Meg says I may; and if I pay
for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it."

"You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit
alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our
pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper, when
you weren't asked. You sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where
you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger
in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to
reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls
hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot
her grown-up ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was
setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening tone,
"You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't."

"Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door.

They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake"
were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of
the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and
princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy
queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she
amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her
"sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course
of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent
when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and
semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed
afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had
hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting
her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly
confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her
sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury,
because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be
good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her;
and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an
injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or
asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered
resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing
description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's
first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had
soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the
floor. Everything was in its place, however; and after a hasty glance
into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had
forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which produced
a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the
afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and demanding
breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?"

Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the
fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her in
a minute.

"Amy, you've got it?"

"No, I haven't."

"You know where it is, then?"

"No, I don't."

"That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking
fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

"It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't
care."

"You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll
make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake.

"Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again,"
cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

"Why not?"

"I burnt it up."

                     [Illustration: I burnt it up]

"What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to
finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo,
turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy
nervously.

"Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday,
and I have, so--"

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy
till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and
anger,--

"You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live."

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside
herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of
the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard
the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her
sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her
family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen
little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her
whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to
print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the
old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of
several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her
pet; Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would
love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted
more than any of them.

When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,--

"Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry."

"I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that
moment, she ignored Amy entirely.

No one spoke of the great trouble,--not even Mrs. March,--for all had
learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted;
and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own
generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the breach. It was
not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual, while their mother
read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and
the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They felt this most when
singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone,
and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung alone. But, in spite of their
efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to
chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.

As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,--

"My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each other,
help each other, and begin again to-morrow."

Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief
and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so
deeply injured that she really _couldn't_ quite forgive yet. So she
winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was
listening,--

"It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven."

With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential
gossip that night.

Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and
began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than
ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was
particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and
nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning; she
dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack
of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth _would_ look grieved and wistful when
she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always
talking about being good, and yet wouldn't try, when other people set
them a virtuous example.

"Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself,
and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation,--

"There! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we
shall have. But it's no use to ask such a cross-patch to take me."

"Don't say that; you _were_ very naughty, and it _is_ hard to forgive
the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now,
and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go
after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie,
then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and
I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart."

"I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to
get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached
them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he
was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.

"I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we
begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young
Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.

Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her
fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and
went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of
satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till
it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,
he shouted back,--

"Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle."

Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a
word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was
harboring said in her ear,--

"No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."

Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the
river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart;
then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,
just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden
crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart
stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone;
she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in
them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with
a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water.
Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out,--

"Bring a rail; quick, quick!"

How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked
as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,
and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a
rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more
frightened than hurt.

           [Illustration: Held Amy up by his arms and hockey]

"Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping
his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed
so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot
fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about, looking
pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands
cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was
comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,
she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands.

"Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
under the treacherous ice.

"Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think,
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied
her mother cheerfully.

"Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she _should_ die, it
would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

"It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it
breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
cried poor Jo, in despair.

"Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
cried harder than ever.

"You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any
one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I _shall_ do something dreadful some day,
and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do
help me!"

"I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day,
and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like
it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours,
and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your
temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it."

"Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo
forgot remorse in surprise.

"I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in
controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have
learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though
it may take me another forty years to do so."

The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better
lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt
comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it;
though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a
girl of fifteen.

"Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go
out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry
you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever
before.

"Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and
when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away
a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked,"
answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and
fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair.

"How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me--for the
sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the
worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear."

"My good mother used to help me--"

"As you do us--" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

"But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years
had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on.
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we
were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by
nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."

"Poor mother! what helped you then?"

"Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,--never doubts or
complains,--but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that
one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me,
and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have
my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try
for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of
you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have
done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the
sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would
have them copy."

"O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried
Jo, much touched.

"I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch
over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not
spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart
and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater
sorrow and regret than you have known to-day."

"I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and
keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger
on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you
always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?"
asked Jo softly.

"Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me
from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."

Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she
spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously,
"Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be
rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so
safe and happy here."

"My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest
happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how
much I love them."

"I thought I'd grieved you."

"No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how
much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his
little daughters safe and good for him."

"Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never
complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering.

"I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was
gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and
will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need
help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort
and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are
beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if
you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as
you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the
nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power
and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken
from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and
strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little
cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as
you come to your mother."

Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which
followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart
without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only
the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial
and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to
the Friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of
any father, tenderer than that of any mother.

Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once
to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it
had never worn before.

"I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and to-day,
if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I
be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister,
softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a
smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they
hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was
forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.




              [Illustration: Packing the go abroady trunk]

 Jo Meets Apollyon Laurie invites Jo and Meg to the theater, and Amy begs to go along, but Jo refuses. To get revenge, Amy burns up a book manuscript, a collection of stories that Jo had been writing for several years. Jo, who has a hot temper, shakes Amy and boxes her ears. Gradually Amy realizes she was wrong, but Jo will not forgive her. The next day Jo goes skating with Laurie. Amy follows, but Jo does not tell her which ice is safe, and Amy falls through the ice. Laurie rescues Amy, with Jo's help. At home, with Amy safe, Jo confesses to her Mother that she was consumed by anger and could have lost Amy as a result. Marmee then tells Jo that she, too, once had a very bad temper, but that she has learned to control it. Jo's Father has been a great help to her, and she tries to be an example for her girls. Jo takes great comfort and inspiration from her Mother sharing this weakness, and prays that she will never again let her anger bring her so close to tragedy

