“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 theater 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 shan’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 shan’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
spoiled 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 was as brilliant
and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite
of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the
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 semioccasional
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 anyone
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 burned 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 burned
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 rang, 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 sang alone. But
in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks,
the flutelike 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 tomorrow.”
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 doesn’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 turnover in the gutter, Aunt
March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive,
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
even 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 crosspatch
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, than 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 on 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 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
in 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 a 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 stick
till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together
they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
“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. Oh, 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 even harder.
“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 anyone and enjoy it.
I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some
day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.
Oh, 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 for 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 disheveled 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 anyone 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
practice 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.”
“Oh, 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
today.”
“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 and 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 lifelong 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 always 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 today,
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.