Chapter 72

Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again. “Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you,” began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block. “Yes, sir?” and Jo’s heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it. “I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me.” “Yes, sir,” and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it. “I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?” “Yes, sir,” and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator. “Perhaps also a shawl for Tina’s mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother.” “I’ll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer.” “I’m going very fast, and he’s getting dearer every minute,” added Jo to herself, then with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold. Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family. “Your lady may prefer this. It’s a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel,” he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo’s shoulders. “Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?” she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face. “Excellently well, we will haf it,” answered the Professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter. “Now shall we go home?” he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him. “Yes, it’s late, and I’m so tired.” Jo’s voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged. “This is not our omniboos,” said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I’m used to plodding in the mud,” returned Jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes. Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, “Heart’s dearest, why do you cry?” Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn’t crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, “Because you are going away.” “Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!” cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, “Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?” he added, all in one breath. “Oh, yes!” said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it. It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don’t think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more “Jove-like” than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending. Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak—intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous “Oh, yes!” were not of a coherent or reportable character. “Friedrich, why didn’t you...” “Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!” cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight. “I always call you so to myself—I forgot, but I won’t unless you like it.” “Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say ‘thou’, also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine.” “Isn’t ‘thou’ a little sentimental?” asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable. “Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English ‘you’ is so cold, say ‘thou’, heart’s dearest, it means so much to me,” pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor. “Well, then, why didn’t thou tell me all this sooner?” asked Jo bashfully. “Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo—ah, the dear, funny little name—I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said ‘Yes’, then, if I had spoken?” “I don’t know. I’m afraid not, for I didn’t have any heart just then.” “Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, ‘Die erste Liebe ist die beste’, but that I should not expect.” “Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,” said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor’s mistake. “Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin.” “I like that,” cried Jo, delighted with her new name. “Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?” “This,” and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket. Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt. “How could that bring you?” she asked, wondering what he meant. “I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet.” IN THE GARRET Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day. Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain. “Meg” on the first lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life— Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg’s play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain. “Jo” on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain— “Be worthy, love, and love will come,” In the falling summer rain. My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine— The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain. Upon the last lid’s polished field— Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield, “Amy” in letters gold and blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their last, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past, Gay valentines, all ardent flames, Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames, The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer, truer spells, Hearing, like a blithe refrain, The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain. Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love’s immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father’s sight, May they be rich in golden hours, Deeds that show fairer for the light, Lives whose brave music long shall ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain. “It’s very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales,” said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long. “Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets,” said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. “Yes,” he added earnestly, “I read that, and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, ‘If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott’s name?’” “And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed,” whispered Jo. “I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, ‘I will haf her if I die for it,’ and so I will!” cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down. Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array. “What made you stay away so long?” she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent. “It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?” “I’m glad you are poor.