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                    CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

     Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to
some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and
gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the
eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said.  They were
all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March,
John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the
sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but
fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.

     "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall
be home early tomorrow.  You'll come and meet me as usual,
girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage
after the joys of the day were over.  He said `girls', but he
meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom.
She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy
anything, and answered warmly . . .

     "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you,
playing `Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."

     Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a
sudden panic, "Oh, deary me!  I know he'll say something, and
then what shall I do?"

     Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her
fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough
to think people were going to propose when she had given them
every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth
at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to
make her hurt his poor feelings.  A call at Meg's, and a
refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still
further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw
a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong
desire to turn about and run away.

     "Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as
he was within speaking distance.

     "I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation
could not be called loverlike.

     She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now
she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign,
but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects,
till they turned from the road into the little path that led
homeward through the grove.  Then he walked more slowly, sudd-
enly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dread-
ful pause occurred.  To rescue the conversation from one of
the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said
hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!"

     "I intend to."

     Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to
find him looking down at her with an expression that assured
her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand
with an imploring, "No, Teddy.  Please don't!"

     "I will, and you must hear me.  It's no use, Jo, we've got
to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he
answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.

     "Say what you like then.  I'll listen," said Jo, with a
desperate sort of patience.

     Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant
to `have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into
the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice
that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to
keep it steady . ..

     "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help
it, you've been so good to me.  I've tried to show it, but you
wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an
answer, for I can't go on so any longer."

     "I wanted to save you this.  I thought you'd understand . . .
began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

     "I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know
what they mean.  They say no when they mean yes, and drive a
man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie,
entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.

     "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and
I went away to keep you from it if I could."

     "I thought so.  It was like you, but it was no use.  I
only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you,
and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and
waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though
I'm not half good enough . . ." Here there was a choke that
couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he
cleared his `confounded throat'.

     "You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and
I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't
know why I can't love you as you want me to.  I've tried, but
I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do
when I don't."

     "Really, truly, Jo?"

     He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put
his question with a look that she did not soon forget.

     "Really, truly, dear.""

     They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when
the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped
her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life
the fence was too much for him.  So he just laid his head down
on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.

     "Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill
myself if it would do any good!  I wish you wouldn't take it
so hard, I can't help it.  You know it's impossible for people
to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo
inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoul-
der, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long
ago.

     "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.

     "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd
rather not try it," was the decided answer.

     There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on
the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind.
Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of
the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something."

     He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and
cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear
it now!"

     "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence.

     "That you love that old man."

     "What old man?"  demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his
grandfather.

     "That devilish Professor you were always writing about.
If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desper-
ate." And he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched
his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.

     Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly,
for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear,
Teddy!  He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and
the best friend I've got, next to you.  Pray, don't fly into
a passion.  I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if
you abuse my Professor.  I haven't the least idea of loving
him or anybody else."

     "But you will after a while, and then what will become of
me?"

     "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and
forget all this trouble."

     "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo,
Never! Never!"  with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

     "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions
were more unmanagable than she expected.  "You haven't heard
what I wanted to tell you.  Sit down and listen, for indeed I
want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe
him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing
about love.

     Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw him-
self down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower
step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face.
Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear
thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her
boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing,
and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness
of heart had wrung from him?  She gently turned his head away,
saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to
grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure!

     "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each
other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would prob-
ably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to . . ."
Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it
with a rapturous expression.

     "Marry--no we shouldn't!  If you loved me, Jo, I should
be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."

     "No, I can't.  I've tried and failed, and I won't risk
our happiness by such a serious experiment.  We don't agree and
we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we
won't go and do anything rash."

     "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie re-
belliously.

     "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the
case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end.

     "I won't be reasonable.  I don't want to take what you
call `a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes
it harder.  I don't believe you've got any heart."

     "I wish I hadn't."

     There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a
good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive
powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had
never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint
us, dear!  Everyone expects it.  Grandpa has set his heart upon
it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you.  Say
you will, and let's be happy.  Do, do!"

     Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had
the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had
made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and
never could.  It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing
that delay was both useless and cruel.

     "I can't say `yes' truly, so I won't say it at all.  You'll
see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it . . ." she
began solemnly.

     "I'll be hanged if I do!" And Laurie  bounced up off the
grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

     "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo.  "You'll get over this after
a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore
you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house.  I shouldn't.
I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed
of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see--
and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd
hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we
should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything
would be horrid!"

     "Anything more?" asked asked Laurie, finding it hard to
listen patiently to this prophetic burst.

     "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever
marry.  I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to
be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."

     "I know better!" broke in Laurie.  "You think so now,
but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and
you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him.  I
know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by
and see it."  And the despairing lover cast his hat upon the
ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his
face had not been so tragic.

     "Yes, I will live and die for him, if her ever comes and
makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best
you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy.  "I've
done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish
of you to keep teasing for what I can't give.  I shall always
be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never
marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both
of us--so now!"

     That speech was like gunpowder.  Laurie looked at her a
minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself,
then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone,
"You'll be sorry some day, Jo."

     "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face fright-
ened her.

     "To the devil!" was the consoling answer.

     For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself
down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin
or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie
was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single
failure.  He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but
some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat,
and row away with all his might, making better time up the
river than he had done in any race.  Jo drew a long breath and
unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to
outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.

     "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a
tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him."
she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she
had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the
leaves.  "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very
kind to my poor boy.  I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may
in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her.  Oh
dear!  How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them?  I
think it's dreadful."

     Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she
went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely
through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own
insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely dis-
appointed, did not utter a reproach.  He found it difficult
to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped
she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo
that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and
resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Im-
petuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he
would confess.

     When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his
grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the
delusion very successfully for an hour or two.  But when they
sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so
much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual,
and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of
the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's
labor lost.  He bore it as long as he could, then went to
his piano and began to play.  The window's were open, and Jo,
walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music
better than her sister, for he played the `SONATA PATHETIQUE',
and played it as he never did before.

     "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make
one cry.  Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence,
whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to
show but knew not how.

     Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for
several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a
momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,
"Jo, dear, come in.  I want you."

     Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning!
As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken
chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.

     "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he
got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either
of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I
know, my boy, I know."

     No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who
told you?"

     "Jo herself."

     "Then there's an end of it!"  And he shook off his grand-
father's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful
for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.

     "Not quite.  I want to say one thing, and then there shall
be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness.
"You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?"

     "I don't intend to run away from a girl.  Jo can't prevent
my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,"
interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone.

     "Not if you are the gentleman I think you.  I'm disap-
pointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left
for you to do is to go away for a time.  Where will you go?"

     "Anywhere.  I don't care what becomes of me."  And Laurie
got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's
ear.

     "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's
sake.  Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"

     "I can't."

     "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should
when you got through college."

     "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!"  And Laurie walked
fast through the room with an expression which it was well
his grandfather did not see.

     "I don't ask you to go alone.  There's someone ready and
glad to go with you, anywhere in the world."

     "Who, Sir?'  stopping to listen.

     "Myself."

     Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his
hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--
Grandfather--"

     "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all
before, once in my own young days, and then with your father.
Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan.  It's
all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence,
keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break
away as his father had done before him.

     "Well, sir, what is it?"  And Laurie sat down, without a
sign of interest in face or voice.

     "There is business in London that needs looking after.  I
meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself,
and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage
them.  My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding
on until you take my place, and can be off at any time."

     "But you hate traveling, Sir.  I can't ask it of you at
your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice,
but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.

     The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particu-
larly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his
grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to
his own devices.  So, stifling a natural regret at the thought
of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,
Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet.  I quite enjoy the
idea.  It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for
traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."

     A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair
was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the
old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a bur-
den.  I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was
left behind.  I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave
you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own
way.  I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to
visit them.  Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzer-
land, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery,
and adventures to your heart's content."

     Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely
broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound
of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced
into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected
leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling
wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,
"Just as you like, Sir.  It doesn't matter where I go or what
I do."

     "It does to me, remember that, my lad.  I give you entire
liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it.  Promise
me that, Laurie."

     "Anything you like, Sir."

     "Good," thought the old gentleman.  "You don't care now,
but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out
of mischief, or I'm much mistaken."

     Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while
the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit
enough to rebel, they were off.  During the time necessary for
preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do
in such cases.  He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns,
lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time
to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but con-
soled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic
face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a
heavy sense of guilt by day.  Unlike some sufferers, he never
spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not
even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy.  On
some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks
before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone re-
joiced that the `poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his
trouble, and come home happy'.  Of course, he smiled darkly at
their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of
one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.

     When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal
certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert
themselves.  This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they
tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well
till Mrs. March kissed him, whit a whisper full of motherly
solicitude.  Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily
embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and
ran downstairs as if for his life.  Jo followed a minute after to
wave her hand to him if he looked round.  He did look round, came
back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him,
and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal elo-
quent and pathetic.

     "Oh, Jo, can't you?"

     "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!"

     That was all, except a little pause.  Then Laurie straightened
himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away with-
out another word.  Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for
while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer,
she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left
her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never
would come again.

                  END OF CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE