Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (76 page)

“It’s very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales,” said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long.

“Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets,” said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. “Yes,” he added earnestly, “I read that, and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her; shall I not go and say, ‘If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott’s name?’”

“And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed,” whispered Jo.

“I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, ‘I will haf her if I die for it,’ and so I will!” cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.

Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.

“What made you stay away so long?” she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent.

“It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to give you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?”

“I’m glad you
are
poor; I couldn’t bear a rich husband,” said Jo decidedly, adding, in a softer tone, “Don’t fear poverty. I’ve known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love; and don’t call yourself old—forty is the prime of life. I couldn’t help loving you if you were seventy!”

The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it; as he couldn‘t, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two—

“I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I’m out of my sphere now, for woman’s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens. I’m to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I’ll never go,” she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.

“We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?”

“Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn’t enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so there’s no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God wills.”

“Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands,” cried the Professor, quite overcome.

Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering tenderly, “Not empty now,” and, stooping down, kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad “Welcome home!” Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.

47

For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over—for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue—they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.

“It’s a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course you intend to sell it,” said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter over some weeks later.

“No, I don‘t,” was Jo’s decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.

“You don’t mean to live there?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But, my dear girl, it’s an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn’t in Bhaer’s line, I take it.”

“He’ll try his hand at it there, if I propose it.”

“And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you’ll find it desperate hard work.”

“The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one.” And Jo laughed.

“Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma‘am?”

“Boys. I want to open a school for little lads—a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them.”

“There’s a truly Joian plan for you! Isn’t that just like her?” cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.

“I like it,” said Mrs. March decidedly.

“So do I,” added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.

“It will be an immense care for Jo,” said Meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son.

“Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It’s a splendid idea. Tell us all about it,” cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.

“I knew you’d stand by me, sir. Amy does too—I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people,” continued Jo earnestly, “just understand that this isn’t a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I’d made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I’d hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who hadn’t any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!”

Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long while.

“I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he’s been doing it all his life—helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich; that he’ll never be; money doesn’t stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved,
I’m
rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It’s just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There’s plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn’t it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I’ve always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in the little dears to my heart’s content. Think what luxury—Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!”

As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he’d have an apoplectic fit.

“I don’t see anything funny,” she said gravely, when she could be heard. “Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate.”

“She is putting on airs already,” said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. “But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I’m afraid your crop won’t be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer.”

“Now don’t be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also—perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I’ve got start, I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people’s children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I’ve seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it’s real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy
^ls
age, and that’s the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children into fine young men. They don’t complain much—plucky little souls—but they feel it. I’ve been through something of it, and I know all about it. I’ve a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys’ hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I’ve had experience, too, for haven’t I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?”

“I’ll testify that you tried to do it,” said Laurie with a grateful look.

“And I’ve succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a businessman: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I
am
proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won’t let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I’ll just point to you, and say, ‘There’s your model, my lads.”’

Poor Laurie didn’t know where to look; for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him.

“I say, Jo, that’s rather too much,” he began, just in his old boyish way. “You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I’ve had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I’ve got on at all, you may thank these two for it.” And he laid one hand gently on his grandfather’s white head, the other on Amy’s golden one, for the three were never far apart.

“I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!” burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind just then. “When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth,” she added more quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.

It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.

Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her “wilderness of boys,” and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable “cow with a crumpled horn”
^lt
used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys’ paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the “Bhaer-garten,” as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.