By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy,
and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed
her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as
it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why
one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing.
It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it
away, but the natural craving for affection was strong,
and Amy’s happiness woke the hungry longing
for someone to ’love with heart and soul, and
cling to while God let them be together’.
Up in the garret, where Jo’s unquiet wanderings
ended stood four little wooden chests in a row, each
marked with its owners name, and each filled with
relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for
all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came
to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared
absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle
of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew
them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant
winter at kind Mrs. Kirke’s. She had smiled
at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and
when she came to a little message written in the Professor’s
hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out
of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words,
as they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot
in her heart.
“Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little
late, but I shall surely come.”
“Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good,
so patient with me always, my dear old Fritz.
I didn’t value him half enough when I had him,
but now how I should love to see him, for everyone
seems going away from me, and I’m all alone.”
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a
promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down
on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition
to the rain pattering on the roof.
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits?
Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had
bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
Who shall say?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SURPRISES
Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa,
looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her
favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No
one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth’s
little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams,
or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never
seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave,
and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and
she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old
she was getting, and how little she seemed to have
accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing
to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that.
There was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she
saw, and was grateful for it.
“An old maid, that’s what I’m to
be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse,
a family of stories for children, and twenty years
hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson,
I’m old and can’t enjoy it, solitary, and
can’t share it, independent, and don’t
need it. Well, I needn’t be a sour saint
nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are
very comfortable when they get used to it, but . .
.” and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was
not inviting.
