When Jo came home that spring, she
had been struck with the change in Beth. No
one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come
too gradually to startle those who saw her daily,
but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain
and a heavy weight fell on Jo’s heart as she
saw her sister’s face. It was no paler and
but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there
was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the
mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal
shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably
pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said
nothing at the time, and soon the first impression
lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one
appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently
in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear.
But when Laurie was gone, and peace
prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted
her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven,
but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain
trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not
to go so far away from home. Another little
visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as
Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies,
Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could
live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes
blow a little color into her pale cheeks.
It was not a fashionable place, but
even among the pleasant people there, the girls made
few friends, preferring to live for one another.
Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped
up in her to care for anyone else. So they were
all in all to each other, and came and went, quite
unconscious of the interest they exited in those about
them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong
sister and the feeble one, always together, as if
they felt instinctively that a long separation was
not far away.
They did feel it, yet neither spoke
of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest
and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is
very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had
fallen between her heart and Beth’s, but when
she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something
sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to
speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that
her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and
during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain
to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing
that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better.
She wondered still more if her sister really guessed
the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through
her mind during the long hours when she lay on the
warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the
winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music
at her feet.
One day Beth told her. Jo thought
she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down
her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying
to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth’s
cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy
her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands
seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells
they had been collecting. It came to her then
more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting
away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened
their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.
For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and
when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly
that there was hardly any need for her to say, “Jo,
dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve
tried to tell you, but I couldn’t.”
There was no answer except her sister’s
cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most
deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker
then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with
her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered
in her ear.
“I’ve known it for a good
while, dear, and now I’m used to it, it isn’t
hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so
and don’t be troubled about me, because it’s
best, indeed it is.”
“Is this what made you so unhappy
in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then,
and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked
Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad
to know that Laurie had no part in Beth’s trouble.
“Yes, I gave up hoping then,
but I didn’t like to own it. I tried to
think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble
anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong
and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that
I could never be like you, and then I was miserable,
Jo.”
“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t
tell me, didn’t let me comfort and help you?
How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?”
Jo’s voice was full of tender
reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary
struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned
to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take
up her cross so cheerfully.
“Perhaps it was wrong, but I
tried to do right. I wasn’t sure, no one
said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It
would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee
was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so
happy with Laurie at least I thought so
then.”
“And I thought you loved him,
Beth, and I went away because I couldn’t,”
cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.
Beth looked so amazed at the idea
that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly,
“Then you didn’t, dearie? I was afraid
it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full
of lovelornity all that while.”
“Why, Jo, how could I, when
he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as innocently
as a child. “I do love him dearly.
He is so good to me, how can I help It? But
he could never be anything to me but my brother.
I hope he truly will be, sometime.”
“Not through me,” said
Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and
they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for
such things, now. I don’t care what becomes
of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”
“I want to, oh, so much!
I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more
sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s
like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly,
but it can’t be stopped.”
“It shall be stopped, your tide
must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth.
I can’t let you go. I’ll work and
pray and fight against it. I’ll keep you
in spite of everything. There must be ways, it
can’t be too late. God won’t be so
cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor Jo
rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously
submissive than Beth’s.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak
much of their piety. It shows itself in acts
rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason
upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and
patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for
death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father
and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and
they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit
for this life and the life to come. She did
not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her
better for her passionate affection, and clung more
closely to the dear human love, from which our Father
never means us to be weaned, but through which He
draws us closer to Himself. She could not say,
“I’m glad to go,” for life was very
sweet for her. She could only sob out, “I
try to be willing,” while she held fast to Jo,
as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke
over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered
serenity, “You’ll tell them this when
we go home?”
“I think they will see it without
words,” sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her
that Beth changed every day.
“Perhaps not. I’ve
heard that the people who love best are often blindest
to such things. If they don’t see it, you
will tell them for me. I don’t want any
secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them.
Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you
must stand by Father and Mother, won’t you Jo?”
“If I can. But, Beth,
I don’t give up yet. I’m going to
believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think
it’s true.” said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then
said in her quiet way, “I don’t know how
to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone
but you, because I can’t speak out except to
my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling
that it never was intended I should live long.
I’m not like the rest of you. I never
made any plans about what I’d do when I grew
up. I never thought of being married, as you
all did. I couldn’t seem to imagine myself
anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at
home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted
to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you
all. I’m not afraid, but it seems as if
I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”
Jo could not speak, and for several
minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind
and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull
flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery
breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and
her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated
sand bird came tripping over the beach ‘peeping’
softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea.
It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with
a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing
its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled
and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer
its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant
world was still to be enjoyed.
“Dear little bird! See,
Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than
the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome,
but they seem happy, confiding little things.
I used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother
said they reminded her of me busy, quaker-colored
creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping
that contented little song of theirs. You are
the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and
the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.
Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she
writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but
always dropping down into its nest again. Dear
little girl! She’s so ambitious, but her
heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she
flies, she never will forget home. I hope I
shall see her again, but she seems so far away.”
“She is coming in the spring,
and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and
enjoy her. I’m going to have you well and
rosy by that time,” began Jo, feeling that of
all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the
greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and
she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
“Jo, dear, don’t hope
any more. It won’t do any good. I’m
sure of that. We won’t be miserable, but
enjoy being together while we wait. We’ll
have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and
I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me.”
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil
face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself
soul and body to Beth.
She was right. There was no
need of any words when they got home, for Father and
Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved
from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth
went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be
home, and when Jo went down, she found that she would
be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret.
Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece
and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched
out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort
her without a word.