CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
LEARNING TO FORGET
Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till
long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords
of creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it
is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds,
they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, they generously
give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so
dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the
climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it
again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but
elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had
received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he
fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest
impression—“I despise you.” “Go and do something splendid that will
make her love you.”
Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought
himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man
has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has
lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and
though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no
occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn’t love him, but he
might make her respect and admire him by doing something which should
prove that a girl’s ‘No’ had not spoiled his life. He had always meant to do
something, and Amy’s advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been
waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred. That
being done, he felt that he was ready to ‘hide his stricken heart, and still toil
on’.
As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie
resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem
which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer.
Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and
moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical
friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too
ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem was
beyond him just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in working
order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a
plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly
recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put
an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.
Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,
but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his
heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender
recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor,
and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo’s
oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental
aspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading
herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la
Gummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was
endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn’t be put into the opera at any price, and he
had to give her up with a “Bless that girl, what a torment she is!” and a
clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.
When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to
immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging
readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,
was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind’s
eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons.
He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his
heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with
every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through
trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.
Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but
gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat
musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas
and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that
winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious
of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. “It’s genius
simmering, perhaps. I’ll let it simmer, and see what comes of it,” he said,
with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn’t genius, but something far
more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew
more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some
real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise
conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning
from one of Mozart’s grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal
Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring
at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly
back again. Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as
the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself…
“She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it so. That music
has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I won’t be a
humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?”
That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had
to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity
for ‘going to the devil’, as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty
of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing
employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations
enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well,
for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so
his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly
into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say “All’s well,” kept him
safe and steady.
Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, “I don’t believe it, boys will
be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect
miracles.” I dare say you don’t, Mrs. Grundy, but it’s true nevertheless.
Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may
perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo
such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the young
men sow their wild oats if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may
help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the
harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of
loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women’s eyes. If it
is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half
the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would
embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still love
their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it.
Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all
his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier
every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and
couldn’t understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary
things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie’s heart
wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that
astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to
remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for
it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full
of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from
such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his
lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a
comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a
fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was
slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and
resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly
affection which would last unbroken to the end.
As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one of his reveries, he
smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him…
“Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have one sister he took
the other, and was happy.”
Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant
kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, “No, I won’t! I haven’t
forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again, and if that fails, why then…”
Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to
Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least
hope of her changing her mind. Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she—and let him
come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but
he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came at last,
and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn’t and
wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word
love again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but
always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a
postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was
coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the
remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God, but Laurie
must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.
“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for her,
I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had been the
proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before.
But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best
paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling
about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business
documents of various kinds were several of Jo’s letters, and in another
compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her
blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside.
With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo’s
letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the
desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly
drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear
High Mass at Saint Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and
though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to
spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.
The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for
Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding
manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro
with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts,
made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody
would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would
not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was
having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid
the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’.
Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once
decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,”
kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she
found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy
the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The
words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would
ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as
pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, “I shall
marry for money.” It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she
could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to
think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of
society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was so
glad he didn’t hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so
beautifully and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for
the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when
they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the
poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being
stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him. It
couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a
dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was
nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.
If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they
would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured
now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything
he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a
week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of
the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having
their letters carried about in their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently,
cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will
not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly
did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for
society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to
show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she
sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently
sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb,
a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired
girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall
gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art,
which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.
Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding
denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she
liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt.
That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to
himself, with a venerable air…
“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve been
through it all, and I can sympathize.”
With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his
duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter
luxuriously.
While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home.
But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the
next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news met her at
Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had
travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She
bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should
not shorten her visit, for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she
had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very
heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the
lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her.
He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,
but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he
read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and
was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and
suspense.
He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he
hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en
pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a
promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the
chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a
flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even a ‘flash
of time’, and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle
himself.
A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts
rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the
tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall
was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself
with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head
on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and
wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the
courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the
subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute looking at her with
new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of
Amy’s character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,
the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the
womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her
throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it
as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would
give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for
dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable
love and longing…
“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!”
I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together
quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over
the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as
Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who
could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did not tell her so, but she was
not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the
rest to silence.
In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,
Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-
worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat
down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection
of her impulsive greeting.
“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see
you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was beginning
to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally.
“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you
for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and…” He could not get
any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite
know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his shoulder, and
tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead,
and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words.
“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said softly. “Beth is
well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I dread the going home,
much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about it now, for it makes me
cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go right back, need
you?”
“Not if you want me, dear.”
“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the
family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while.”
Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that
Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted
—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed.
“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick! I’m
going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and walk about
with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he said, in the half-
caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew
her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under
the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs, and Amy
found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile
at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.
The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed
expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the
tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their
words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked,
or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a
charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them
away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her
in the chateau garden.
The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated
with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it all—the
child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought
of such a thing!”
With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed
no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged
Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much
solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal
occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more
than her usual success.
At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was
never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the most
energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed his
example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to
the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for
her own recovered health and spirits.
The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked
wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer
views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds
blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The
warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes,
and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past,
and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying,
“Little children, love one another.”
In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie
could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to recover
from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his
last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the
thought that Jo’s sister was almost the same as Jo’s self, and the conviction
that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so
soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and
he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of
compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away
as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be
grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be
as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly
any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and
had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no
one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even
Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary
and slow in making a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying
every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put
an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.
He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the
chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous
manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on
the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all
the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of
Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other,
pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless
blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque
boats that look like white-winged gulls.
They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of
Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither
had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered
if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in
the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she
looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes
that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something…
“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, for
since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.”
“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room enough,
though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t trim,” returned
Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered
third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed
as well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and
Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the
water.
“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to
silence just then.
“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,
Amy?” very tenderly.
“Yes, Laurie,” very low.
Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little
tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the
lake.
