Little Women - Louisa May Alcott (the beach read .TXT) 📗

looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say⁠—

“Jo, dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve tried to tell you, but I couldn’t.”

There was no answer except her sister’s cheek against her own, not even tears; for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker, then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

“I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and, now I’m used to it, it isn’t hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don’t be troubled about me, because it’s best; indeed it is.”

“Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth’s trouble.

“Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn’t like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo.”

“O Beth, and you didn’t tell me, didn’t let me comfort and help you! How could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?”

Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.

“Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn’t sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie⁠—at least, I thought so then.”

“And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn’t,” cried Jo, glad to say all the truth.

Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly⁠—

“Then you didn’t, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while.”

“Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime.”

“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now. I don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”

“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”

“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young. Beth, I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight against it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways, it can’t be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth’s.

Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, “I try to be willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.

By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity⁠—

“You’ll tell them this when we go home?”

“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo; for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.

“Perhaps not; I’ve heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and mother, won’t you, Jo?”

“If I can; but, Beth, I don’t give up yet; I’m going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true,” said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.

Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way⁠—

“I don’t know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try, to anyone but you, because I can’t speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I’d do when I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about