in the education of both girls and boys; so I leave Ted to his father all I can, and Fritz lends me Rob, whose quiet ways are as restful and good for me as Ted’s tempests are for his father. Now I advise you, Amy, to let Bess drop the mud-pies for a time, and take up music with Laurie; then she won’t be one-sided, and he won’t be jealous.’
‘Hear, hear! A Daniel—a very Daniel!’ cried Laurie, well pleased. ‘I thought you’d lend a hand, Jo, and say a word for me. I am a little jealous of Amy, and want more of a share in my girl. Come, my lady, let me have her this summer, and next year, when we go to Rome, I’ll give her up to you and high art. Isn’t that a fair bargain?’
‘I agree; but in trying your hobby, nature, with music thrown in, don’t forget that, though only fifteen, our Bess is older than most girls of that age, and cannot be treated like a child. She is so very precious to me, I feel as if I wanted to keep her always as pure and beautiful as the marble she loves so well.’
Amy spoke regretfully as she looked about the lovely room where she had spent so many happy hours with this dear child of hers.
‘“Turn and turn about is fair play”, as we used to say when we all wanted to ride on Ellen Tree or wear the russet boots,’ said Jo briskly; ‘so you must share your girl between you, and see who will do the most for her.’
‘We will,’ answered the fond parents, laughing at the recollections Jo’s proverb brought up to them.
‘How I did use to enjoy bouncing on the limbs of that old apple-tree! No real horse ever gave me half the pleasure or the exercise,’ said Amy, looking out of the high window as if she saw the dear old orchard again and the little girls at play there.
‘And what fun I had with those blessed boots!’ laughed Jo. ‘I’ve got the relics now. The boys reduced them to rags; but I love them still, and would enjoy a good theatrical stalk in them if it were possible.’
‘My fondest memories twine about the warming-pan and the sausage. What larks we had! And how long ago it seems!’ said Laurie, staring at the two women before him as if he found it hard to realize that they ever had been little Amy and riotous Jo.
‘Don’t suggest that we are growing old, my Lord. We have only bloomed; and a very nice bouquet we make with our buds about us,’ answered Mrs Amy, shaking out the folds of her rosy muslin with much the air of dainty satisfaction the girl used to show in a new dress.
‘Not to mention our thorns and dead leaves,’ added Jo, with a sigh; for life had never been very easy to her, and even now she had her troubles both within and without.
‘Come and have a dish of tea, old dear, and see what the young folks are about. You are tired, and want to be “stayed with flagons and comforted with apples”,’ said Laurie, offering an arm to each sister, and leading them away to afternoon tea, which flowed as freely on Parnassus as the nectar of old.
They found Meg in the summer-parlour, an airy and delightful room, full now of afternoon sunshine and the rustle of trees; for the three long windows opened on the garden. The great music-room was at one end, and at the other, in a deep alcove hung with purple curtains, a little household shrine had been made. Three portraits hung there, two marble busts stood in the corners, and a couch, an oval table, with its urn of flowers, were the only articles of furniture the nook contained. The busts were John Brooke and Beth—Amy’s work—both excellent likenesses, and both full of the placid beauty which always recalls the saying, that ‘Clay represents life; plaster, death; marble, immortality’. On the right, as became the founder of the house, hung the portrait of Mr Laurence, with its expression of mingled pride and benevolence, as fresh and attractive as when he caught the girl Jo admiring it. Opposite was Aunt March—a legacy to Amy—in an imposing turban, immense sleeves, and long mittens decorously crossed on the front of her plum-coloured satin gown. Time had mellowed the severity of her aspect; and the fixed regard of the handsome old gentleman opposite seemed to account for the amiable simper on lips that had not uttered a sharp word for years.
In the place of honour, with the sunshine warm upon it, and a green garland always round it, was Marmee’s beloved face, painted with grateful skill by a great artist whom she had befriended when poor and unknown. So beautifully lifelike was it that it seemed to smile down upon her daughters, saying cheerfully: ‘Be happy; I am with you still.’
The three sisters stood a moment looking up at the beloved picture with eyes full of tender reverence and the longing that never left them; for this noble mother had been so much to them that no one could ever fill her place. Only two years since she had gone away to live and love anew, leaving such a sweet memory behind her that it was both an inspiration and a comforter to all the household. They felt this as they drew closer to one another, and Laurie put it into words as he said earnestly:
‘I can ask nothing better for my child than that she may be a woman like our mother. Please God, she shall be, if I can do it; for I owe the best I have to this dear saint.’
Just then a fresh voice began to sing ‘Ave Maria’ in the music-room, and Bess unconsciously echoed her father’s prayer for her as she dutifully obeyed his wishes. The soft sound of the air Marmee used to sing led the listeners back into the world again from that momentary reaching after the loved and lost, and they sat down together near the open windows enjoying the music, while Laurie brought them tea, making the little service pleasant by the tender care he gave to it.
Nat came in with Demi, soon followed by Ted and Josie, the Professor and his faithful Rob, all anxious to hear more about ‘the boys’. The rattle of cups and tongues grew brisk, and the setting sun saw a cheerful company resting in the bright room after the varied labours of the day.
Professor Bhaer was grey now, but robust and genial as ever; for he had the work he loved, and did it so heartily that the whole college felt his beautiful influence. Rob was as much like him as it was possible for a boy to be, and was already called the ‘young Professor’, he so adored study and closely imitated his honoured father in all ways.
‘Well, heart’s dearest, we go to have our boys again, all two, and may rejoice greatly,’ said Mr Bhaer, seating himself beside Jo with a beaming face and a handshake of congratulation.
‘Oh, Fritz, I’m so delighted about Emil, and if you approve about Franz also. Did you know Ludmilla? Is it a wise match?’ asked Mrs Jo, handing him her cup of tea and drawing closer, as if she welcomed her refuge in joy as well as sorrow.
‘It all goes well. I saw the Mädchen when I went over to place Franz. A child then, but most sweet and charming. Blumenthal is satisfied, I think, and the boy will be happy. He is too German to be content away from Vaterland, so we shall have him as a link between the new and the old, and that pleases me much.’
‘And Emil, he is to be second mate next voyage; isn’t that fine? I’m so happy that both your boys have done well; you gave up so much for them and their mother. You make light of it, dear, but I never forget it,’ said Jo, with her hand in his as sentimentally as if she was a girl again and her Fritz had come a-wooing.
He laughed his cheery laugh, and whispered behind her fan: ‘If I had not come to America for the poor lads, I never should have found my Jo. The hard times are very sweet now, and I bless Gott for all I seemed to lose, because I gained the blessing of my life.’
‘Spooning! spooning! Here’s an awful flirtation on the sly,’ cried Teddy, peering over the fan just at that interesting moment, much to his mother’s confusion and his father’s amusement; for the Professor never was ashamed of the fact that he still considered his wife the dearest woman in the world. Rob promptly ejected his brother from one window, to see him skip in at the other, while Mrs Jo shut her fan and held it ready to rap her unruly boy’s knuckles if he came near her again.
Nat approached in answer to Mr Bhaer’s beckoning teaspoon, and stood before them with a face full of the respectful affection he felt for the excellent man who had done so much for him.
‘I have the letters ready for thee, my son. They are two old friends of mine in Leipzig, who will befriend thee in that new life. It is well to have