Chapter 8
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 dolls, 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 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 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
story?"
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 get your
silly old story again," cried Amy, getting excited in
her turn.
"Why not?"
"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
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 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 satistion 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,
"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.—Page 116.
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.
"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 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. 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 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."
"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, 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 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.