Chapter 41 – Learning To Forget

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Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did
not own it till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women
are the advisers, the lords of creation don’t take the advice
till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they
intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds,
they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it
fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back
to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several
weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had
improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again.
There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better,
but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding
he had received. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing
grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating
the words that had made the deepest impression – "I despise you."
"Go and do something splendid that will make her love you."

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon
brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy,
but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged
in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt
that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though
he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was
no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn’t
love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing
something which should prove that a girl’s ‘No’ had not spoiled
his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy’s
advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till
the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred.
That being done, he felt that he was ready to ‘hide his
stricken heart, and still toil on’.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song,
so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to
compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the
heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman
found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off,
he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to
work with the firm determination to distinguish himself. But
whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or
music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered
that the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident
that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas
needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain,
he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled
the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman,
and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in
the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset
him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory
to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions
of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed
by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo’s
oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most
unsentimental aspects – beating mats with her head tied up in
a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing
cold water over his passion a la Gummidge – and an irresistable
laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to
paint. Jo wouldn’t be put into the opera at any price, and he
had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!"
and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable
damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the
most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it
always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and
floated airily before his mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses,
peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the
complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and
grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with
every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed,
through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time,
but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose,
while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city
to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be
in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much,
but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of
some sort going on in spite of himself. "It’s genius simmering,
perhaps. I’ll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said,
with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn’t genius, but
something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to
some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his
desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work
to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion
that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning
from one of Mozart’s grand operas, splendidly performed at
the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the
best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven,
and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he
tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered
out of his hand, he said soberly to himself . . .

"She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it
so. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it
out of her, and I won’t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall
I do?"

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to
wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred
an eligible opportunity for ‘going to the devil’, as he once
forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing
to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment
for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations
enough from without and from within, but he withstood them
pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good
faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather,
and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of
the women who loved him, and say "All’s well," kept him safe
and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don’t believe it,
boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats,
and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you don’t,
Mrs. Grundy, but it’s true nevertheless. Women work
a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may
perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by
refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the
longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats
if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to
make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling
the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in
the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest
in good women’s eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave us
to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and
the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would
embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads,
who still love their mothers better than themselves and are
not ashamed to own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo
would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise
he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe
it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn’t understand it,
but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and
time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie’s heart
wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity
that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found
himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of
affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with
himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a
queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could
recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully
stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to
burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow that
warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever,
and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish
passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment,
very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was
sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection
which would last unbroken to the end.

As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one
of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of
Mozart that was before him . . .

"Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have
one sister he took the other, and was happy."

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and
the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself,
"No, I won’t! I haven’t forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again,
and if that fails, why then . . ."

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper
and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything
while there was the least hope of her changing her mind.
Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she – and let him come home and be happy?
While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it
energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came
at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo
decidedly couldn’t and wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in Beth,
and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged
him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little
corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript
she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was
coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening
the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please
God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel
lonely, homesick or anxious.

"So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad
going home for her, I’m afraid," and Laurie opened his desk,
as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the
sentence left unfinished some weeks before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged
out his best paper, he came across something which
changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk
among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds
were several of Jo’s letters, and in another compartment were
three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue
ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put
away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,
Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed, folded, and put
them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute
turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew
it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went
out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan’s, feeling as if there
had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction,
this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than
in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered,
for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most
delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished
famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity
all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made
allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody
would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go
to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not
ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of
her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical
eyes of ‘our boy’.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which
she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she
said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the time
came, her courage failed her, and she found that something
more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new
longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and
fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all
the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie’s face
when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously
as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I
shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that
now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly.
She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly
creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now
half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was
so glad he didn’t hate her for the dreadful things she said,
but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His
letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very
irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did
come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them,
for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo
persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an
effort and tried to love him. It couldn’t be very hard,
many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy
care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so
there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like
a brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at
this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than
they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on
all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made
charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters
a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and
captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few
brothers are complimented by having their letters carried
about in their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently,
cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully,
we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and
foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale
and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society,
and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much
to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare
say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the
terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that
occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young
man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly
haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on
the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur
according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not
altogether satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred,
and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy
left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie
should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but
he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself,
with a venerable air . . .

"I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow!
I’ve been through it all, and I can sympathize."

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had
discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa
and enjoyed Amy’s letter luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had
come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failing
never reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, for
the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled
slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian
lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the
family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for
since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better
stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was
very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked
wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and
comfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters
to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to
reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack,
bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his
promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the
little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the
Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair
that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the
lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau
garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting
down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could
not wait even a ‘flash of time’, and in the middle of the
speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake,
with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and
the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny
water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here
Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the
beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning
her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes,
thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She
did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause
in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the
garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing
what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy’s character.
Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow,
the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up
her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the
little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie,
for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament.
If he had any doubts about the reception she would give
him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw
him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a
tone of unmistakable love and longing . . .

"Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!"

I think everything was said and settled then, for as they
stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head
bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no
one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and
Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who
could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did not tell her
so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,
were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she
dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers,
finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive
sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her,
Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of
her impulsive greeting.

"I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so
very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find
you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t come," she said,
trying in vain to speak quite naturally.

"I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something
to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only
feel, and . . ." He could not get any further, for he too
turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to
say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his shoulder, and tell
her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand
instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than

"You needn’t say anything, this comforts me," she said
softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back,
but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all.
We won’t talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want
to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go right back, need

"Not if you want me, dear."

"I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you
seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to
have you for a little while."

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart
was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and
gave her just what she wanted – the petting she was used to and
the cheerful conversation she needed.

"Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself
half sick! I’m going to take care of you, so don’t cry any
more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly
for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing,
half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat,
drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the
sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at
ease upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong
arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind
voice to talk delightfully for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers,
and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was
it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide
lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by
below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested
on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a
charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell
warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of
loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she
was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself,
"Now I understand it all – the child has been pining for young
Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!"

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing,
and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged
Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it
would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a
model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied
with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it
with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At
Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding,
boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, while
Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as
far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing
to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad
of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise
worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies.
They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there
among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away
desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The
warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas,
tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash
away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains
to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children,
love one another."

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so
happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It
took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the
cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last
and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty
by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the same as Jo’s
self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible
to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first
wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back
upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of
compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it,
but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his
life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over.
His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple
as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly
any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without
words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came
about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that
everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little
passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making
a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour,
and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would
put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place
in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and
decorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the
matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words.
They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy
St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side,
Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in
the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue
sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque
boats that look like white-winged gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past
Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he
wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was a
love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting
as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water
during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked
up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes
that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something . . .

"You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me
good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious."

"I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s
room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the
boat won’t trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the
offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted
an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though
she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and
the boat went smoothly through the water.

"How well we pull together, don’t we?" said Amy, who objected
to silence just then.

"So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat.
Will you, Amy?" very tenderly.

"Yes, Laurie," very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty
little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views
reflected in the lake.


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