"I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early to-morrow; you'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said "girls," but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly,—
436 "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes,' on a jews-harp."
Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think, in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?"
Evening meditation6 and morning work somewhat allayed7 her fears, and having decided8 that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth9 at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor little feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing10 sniff11 and sip12 at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified13 her for the tête-à-tête, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming14 in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.
"Where's the jews-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"I forgot it;" and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like.
She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of far-away subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove15. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and, now and then, a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily,—
"Now you must have a good long holiday!"
"I intend to."
Something in his resolute16 tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded17 moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring,—
"No, Teddy, please don't!"
"I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo; we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
437 "Say what you like, then; I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to "have it out," if he died in the attempt; so he plunged19 into the subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady,—
"I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo; couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer."
"I wanted to save you this; I thought you'd understand—" began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
"I know you did; but girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say No when they mean Yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching21 himself behind an undeniable fact.
"I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could."
"I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards22 and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough—" here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his "confounded throat."
"Yes, you are; you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't see why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't."
"Really, truly, Jo?"
He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget.
"Really, truly, dear."
They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.
He laid his head down on the mossy post
438 "O Teddy, I'm so sorry, so desperately23 sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard. I can't help it; you know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully24, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.
"I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer.
There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely26 on the willow27 by the river, and the tall grass rustled28 in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,—
"Laurie, I want to tell you something."
He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out, in a fierce tone—
"Don't tell me that, Jo; I can't bear it now!"
"Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.
439 "That you love that old man."
"What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
"That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched29 his hands, with a wrathful spark in his eyes.
Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said warmly, for she, too, was getting excited with all this,—
"Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion; I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else."
"But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"
"You'll love some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble."
"I can't love any one else; and I'll never forget you, Jo, never! never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate30 words.
"What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanageable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen; for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe31 him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love.
Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive32 to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part; for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing33, and lashes34 still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung35 from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy36 hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake,—how touching37 that was, to be sure!—
"I agree with mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us 440 very miserable38, if we were so foolish as to—" Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression,—
"Marry,—no, we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."
"No, I can't. I've tried it and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall; so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash."
"Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously39.
"Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored40 Jo, almost at her wit's end.
"I won't be reasonable; I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view;' it won't help me, and it only makes you harder. I don't believe you've got any heart."
"I wish I hadn't!"
There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and, thinking it a good omen18, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive41 powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before,—
"Don't disappoint us, dear! Every one expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!"
Not until months afterward42 did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.
"I can't say 'Yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by and by, and thank me for it"—she began solemnly.
"I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the bare idea.
"Yes, you will!" persisted Jo; "you'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely, accomplished43 girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely44 and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel,—we can't help it even now, you see,—and I 441 shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling45, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid46!"
"Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.
"Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up for any mortal man."
"I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now; but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it;" and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragical47.
"Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you; and the sooner you believe it, the better for both of us,—so now!"
That speech was like fire to gunpowder48. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying, in a desperate sort of tone,—
"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."
"Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her.
"To the devil!" was the consoling answer.
For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank, toward the river; but it takes much folly49, sin, or misery50 to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge20, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in many a race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip51 the trouble which he carried in his heart.
442 "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent52 state of mind, that I sha'n't dare to see him," she said; adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves,—
"Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth; perhaps he may, in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! how can girls like to have lovers and refuse them. I think it's dreadful."
Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally53 over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly, and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way; for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.
When Laurie came home, dead tired, but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion54 very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight55, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble56 on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed love's labor57 lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano, and began to play. The windows were open; and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the "Sonata58 Pathétique," and played it as he never did before.
"That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry; give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show, but knew not how.
Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if, in a momentary59 lull60, Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,—
"Jo, dear, come in; I want you."
443 Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place; the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.
"I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman,—
"I know, my boy, I know."
No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked sharply,—
"Who told you?"
"Jo herself."
"Then there's an end of it!" and he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion; for, though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.
"Not quite; I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence, with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home just now, perhaps?"
"I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie, in a defiant61 tone.
"Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it; and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?"
"Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me;" and Laurie got up, with a reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather's ear.
"Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"
"I can't."
"But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got through college."
"Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the room, with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.
"I don't ask you to go alone; there's some one ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world."
"Who, sir?" stopping to listen.
"Myself."
444 Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily,—
"Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down, and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away, as his father had done before him.
"Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice.
"There is business in London that needs looking after; I meant you should attend to it; but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything; I'm merely holding on till you take my place, and can be off at any time."
"But you hate travelling, sir; I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.
The old gentleman knew that perfectly63 well, and particularly desired to prevent it; for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling64 a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,—
"Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated65 yet. I quite enjoy the idea; it will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for travelling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."
A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily,—
"I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden; I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad66 about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them; meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content."
445 Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely67 broken, and the world a howling wilderness68; but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis69 or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,—
"Just as you like, sir; it doesn't matter where I go or what I do."
"It does to me, remember that, my lad; I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie."
"Anything you like, sir."
"Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief70, or I'm much mistaken."
Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot; and before the blighted71 being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He was moody72, irritable73, and pensive74 by turns; lost his appetite, neglected his dress, and devoted75 much time to playing tempestuously76 on his piano; avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragical face that haunted her dreams by night, and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt77 by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke78 of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation79 or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends; but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and every one rejoiced that the "poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy." Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by, with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity80, like his love, was unalterable.
When the parting came he affected81 high spirits, to conceal82 certain inconvenient83 emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gayety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did, for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed 446 him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude84; then, feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted85 Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal both eloquent86 and pathetic.
"O Jo, can't you?"
O Jo, can't you?
"Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"
447 That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself up, said "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind; for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.
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1
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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entrenching
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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remorsefully
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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48
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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outstrip
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| v.超过，跑过 | |
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52
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tempestuously
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| adv.剧烈地，暴风雨似地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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81
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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83
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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84
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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