Jo's Boys Page 16

Demi let his mother enjoy herself for a few minutes, while he smiled over a certain little dream of his own, not ready yet for the telling; then he said, in the paternal tone which he unconsciously used when speaking of his sisters:

  “I’ll see to the girls; but I begin to think grandpa is right in saying we must each be what God and nature makes us. We can’t change it much—only help to develop the good and control the bad elements in us. I have fumbled my way into my right place at last, I hope. Let Daisy be happy in her way, since it is a good and womanly one. If Nat comes home all right, I’d say: ‘Bless you, my children,’ and give them a nest of their own. Then you and I will help little Jo to find out if it is to be ‘All the world’s a stage’ or ‘Home, sweet home’, for her.”

  “I suppose we must, John; but I can’t help making plans, and hoping they will come to pass. I see that Daisy is bound up in Nat; and if he is worthy of her I shall let them be happy in their own way, as my parents let me. But Josie will be a trial, I foresee; and much as I love the stage, and always did, I don’t see how I can ever let my little girl be an actress, though she certainly has great talent for it.”

  “Whose fault is that?” asked Demi, smiling, as he remembered his mother’s early triumphs and unquenchable interest in the dramatic efforts of the young people round her.

  “Mine, I know. How could it be otherwise when I acted Babes in the Wood with you and Daisy before you could speak, and taught Josie to declaim Mother Goose in her cradle. Ah, me! the tastes of the mother come out in her children, and she must atone for them by letting them have their own way, I suppose.” And Mrs Meg laughed, even while she shook her head over the undeniable fact that the Marches were a theatrical family.

  “Why not have a great actress of our name, as well as an authoress, a minister, and an eminent publisher? We don’t choose our talents, but we needn’t hide them in a napkin because they are not just what we want. I say, let Jo have her way, and do what she can. Here am I to take care of her; and you can’t deny you’d enjoy fixing her furbelows, and seeing her shine before the footlights, where you used to long to be. Come, mother, better face the music and march gaily, since your wilful children will ‘gang their ain gait’.”

  “I don’t see but I must, and ‘leave the consequences to the Lord’, as Marmee used to say when she had to decide, and only saw a step of the road. I should enjoy it immensely, if I could only feel that the life would not hurt my girl, and leave her unsatisfied when it was too late to change; for nothing is harder to give up than the excitements of that profession. I know something of it; and if your blessed father had not come along, I’m afraid I should have been an actress in spite of Aunt March and all our honoured ancestors.”

  “Let Josie add new honour to the name, and work out the family talent in its proper place. I’ll play dragon to her, and you play nurse, and no harm can come to our little Juliet, no matter how many Romeos spoon under her balcony. Really, ma’am, opposition comes badly from an old lady who is going to wring the hearts of our audience in the heroine’s part in Aunty’s play next Christmas. It’s the most pathetic thing I ever saw, mother; and I’m sorry you didn’t become an actress, though we should be nowhere if you had.”

  Demi was on his legs now, with his back to the fire, in the lordly attitude men like to assume when things go well with them, or they want to lay down the law on any subject.

  Mrs Meg actually blushed at her son’s hearty praise, and could not deny that the sound of applause was as sweet now as when she played the Witch’s Curse and The Moorish Maiden’s Vow long years ago.

  “It’s perfectly absurd for me to do it, but I couldn’t resist when Jo and Laurie made the part for me, and you children were to act in it. The minute I get on the old mother’s dress I forget myself and feel the same thrill at the sound of the bell that I used to feel when we got up plays in the garret. If Daisy would only take the daughter’s part it would be so complete; for with you and Josie I am hardly acting, it is all so real.”

  “Especially the hospital scene, where you find the wounded son. Why, mother, do you know when we did that at last rehearsal my face was wet with real tears as you cried over me. It will bring down the house; but don’t forget to wipe ’em off, or I shall sneeze,” said Demi, laughing at the recollection of his mother’s hit.

  “I won’t; but it almost broke my heart to see you so pale and dreadful. I hope there will never be another war in my time, for I should have to let you go; and I never want to live through the same experience we had with father.”

  “Don’t you think Alice does the part better than Daisy would? Daisy hasn’t a bit of the actress in her, and Alice puts life into the dullest words she speaks. I think the Marquise is just perfect in our piece,” said Demi, strolling about the room as if the warmth of the fire sent a sudden colour to his face.

  “So do I. She is a dear girl, and I’m proud and fond of her. Where is she tonight?”

  “Pegging away at her Greek, I suppose. She usually is in the evening. More’s the pity,” added Demi, in a low tone, as he stared intently at the book-case, though he couldn’t read a title.

  “Now, there is a girl after my own heart. Pretty, well-bred, well-educated, and yet domestic, a real companion as well as help-meet for some good and intelligent man. I hope she will find one.”

  “So do I,” muttered Demi.

  Mrs Meg had taken up her work again, and was surveying a half-finished buttonhole with so much interest that her son’s face escaped her eye. He shed a beaming smile upon the rows of poets, as if even in their glass prison they could sympathize and rejoice with him at the first rosy dawn of the great passion which they knew so well. But Demi was a wise youth, and never leaped before looking carefully. He hardly knew his own heart yet, and was contented to wait till the sentiment, the fluttering of those folded wings he began to feel, should escape from the chrysalis and be ready to soar away in the sunshine to seek and claim its lovely mate. He had said nothing; but the brown eyes were eloquent, and there was an unconscious underplot to all the little plays he and Alice Heath acted so well together. She was busy with her books, bound to graduate with high honours, and he was trying to do the same in that larger college open to all, and where each man has his own prize to win or lose. Demi had nothing but himself to offer and, being a modest youth, considered that a poor gift till he had proved his power to earn his living, and the right to take a woman’s happiness into his keeping.

  No one guessed that he had caught the fever except sharp-eyed Josie, and she, having a wholesome fear of her brother—who could be rather awful when she went too far—wisely contented herself with watching him like a little cat, ready to pounce on the first visible sign of weakness. Demi had taken to playing pensively upon his flute after he was in his room for the night, making this melodious friend his confidante, and breathing into it all the tender hopes and fears that filled his heart. Mrs Meg, absorbed in domestic affairs, and Daisy, who cared for no music but Nat’s violin, paid no heed to these chamber concerts, but Josie always murmured to herself, with a naughty chuckle, “Dick Swiveller is thinking of his Sophy Wackles,” and bided her time to revenge certain wrongs inflicted upon her by Demi, who always took Daisy’s side when she tried to curb the spirits of her unruly little sister.

  This evening she got her chance, and made the most of it. Mrs Meg was just rounding off her buttonhole, and Demi still strolling restlessly about the room, when a book was heard to slam in the study, followed by an audible yawn and the appearance of the student looking as if sleep and a desire for mischief were struggling which should be master.

  “I heard my name; have you been saying anything bad about me?” she demanded, perching on the arm of an easychair.

  Her mother told the good news, over which Josie duly rejoiced, and Demi received her congratulations with a benignant air which made her feel that too much satisfaction was not good for him, and incited her to put a thorn into his bed of roses at once.

  “I caught something abo
ut the play just now, and I want to tell you that I’m going to introduce a song into my part to liven it up a bit. How would this do?” and seating herself at the piano she began to sing to these words the air of “Kathleen Mavourneen”:

  “Sweetest of maidens, oh, how can I tell

  The love that transfigures the whole earth to me?

  The longing that causes my bosom to swell,

  When I dream of a life all devoted to thee?”

  She got no further, for Demi, red with wrath, made a rush at her, and the next moment a very agile young person was seen dodging round tables and chairs with the future partner of Tiber & Co. in hot pursuit. “You monkey, how dare you meddle with my papers?” cried the irate poet, making futile grabs at the saucy girl, who skipped to and fro, waving a bit of paper tantalizingly before him.

  “Didn’t; found it in the big ‘Dic’. Serves you right if you leave your rubbish about. Don’t you like my song? It’s very pretty.”

  “I’ll teach you one that you won’t like if you don’t give me my property.”

  “Come and get it if you can” and Josie vanished into the study to have out her squabble in peace, for Mrs Meg was already saying:

  “Children, children! don’t quarrel.”

  The paper was in the fire by the time Demi arrived and he at once calmed down, seeing that the bone of contention was out of the way.

  “I’m glad it’s burnt; I don’t care for it, only some verse I was trying to set to music for one of the girls. But I’ll trouble you to let my papers alone, or I shall take back the advice I gave mother tonight about allowing you to act as much as you like.”

  Josie was sobered at once by this dire threat, and in her most wheedling tone begged to know what he had said. By way of heaping coals of fire on her head he told her, and this diplomatic performance secured him an ally on the spot.

  “You dear old boy! I’ll never tease you again though you moon and spoon both day and night. If you stand by me, I’ll stand by you and never say a word. See here! I’ve got a note for you from Alice. Won’t that be a peace-offering and soothe your little feelings?”

  Demi’s eyes sparkled as Josie held up a paper cocked hat, but as he knew what was probably in it, he took the wind out of Josie’s sails, and filled her with blank astonishment by saying carelessly:

  “That’s nothing; it’s only to say whether she will go to the concert with us tomorrow night. You can read it if you like.”

  With the natural perversity of her sex Josie ceased to be curious the moment she was told to read it, and meekly handed it over; but she watched Demi as he calmly read the two lines it contained and then threw it into the fire.

  “Why, Jack, I thought you’d treasure every scrap the ‘sweetest maid’ touched. Don’t you care for her?”

  “Very much; we all do; but ‘mooning and spooning’, as you elegantly express it, is not in my line. My dear little girl, your plays make you romantic, and because Alice and I act lovers sometimes you take it into your silly head that we are really so. Don’t waste time hunting mares’ nests, but attend to your own affairs and leave me to mine. I forgive you, but don’t do it again; it’s bad taste, and tragedy queens don’t romp.”

  The last cut finished Josie; she humbly begged pardon and went off to bed, while Demi soon followed, feeling that he had not only settled himself but his too inquisitive little sister also. But if he had seen her face as she listened to the soft wailing of his flute he would not have been so sure, for she looked as cunning as a magpie as she said, with a scornful sniff: “Pooh, you can’t deceive me; I know Dick is serenading Sophy Wackles.”

  CHAPTER 11

  EMIL’S THANKSGIVING

  THE BRENDA was scudding along with all sail set to catch the rising wind, and everyone on board was rejoicing, for the long voyage was drawing towards an end.

  “Four weeks more, Mrs Hardy, and we’ll give you a cup of tea such as you never had before,” said second mate Hoffmann, as he paused beside two ladies sitting in a sheltered corner of the deck.

  “I shall be glad to get it, and still gladder to put my feet on solid ground,” answered the elder lady, smiling; for our friend Emil was a favourite, as well he might be, since he devoted himself to the captain’s wife and daughter, who were the only passengers on board.

  “So shall I, even if I have to wear a pair of shoes like Chinese junks. I’ve tramped up and down the deck so much, I shall be barefooted if we don’t arrive soon,” laughed Mary, the daughter, showing two shabby little boots as she glanced up at the companion of these tramps, remembering gratefully how pleasant he had made them.

  “Don’t think there are any small enough in China,” answered Emil, with a sailor’s ready gallantry, privately resolving to hunt up the handsomest shoes he could find the moment he landed.

  “I don’t know what you would have done for exercise, dear, if Mr Hoffmann had not made you walk every day. This lazy life is bad for young people, though it suits an old body like me well enough in calm weather. Is this likely to be a gale, think ye?” added Mrs Hardy, with an anxious glance at the west, where the sun was setting redly.

  “Only a capful of wind, ma’am, just enough to send us along lively,” answered Emil, with a comprehensive glance aloft and alow.

  “Please sing, Mr Hoffmann, it’s so pleasant to have music at this time. We shall miss it very much when we get ashore,” said Mary, in a persuasive tone which would have won melody from a shark, if such a thing were possible.

  Emil had often blessed his one accomplishment during these months, for it cheered the long days, and made the twilight hour his happiest time, wind and weather permitting. So now he gladly tuned his pipe, and leaning on the taffrail near the girl, watched the brown locks blowing in the wind as he sang her favourite song:

  “Give me freshening breeze, my boys,

  A white and swelling sail,

  A ship that cuts the dashing waves,

  And weathers every gale.

  What life is like a sailor’s life,

  So free, so bold, so brave?

  His home the ocean’s wide expanse,

  A coral bed his grave.”

  Just as the last notes of the clear, strong voice died away, Mrs Hardy suddenly exclaimed: “What’s that?”

  Emil’s quick eye saw at once the little puff of smoke coming up a hatchway where no smoke should be, and his heart seemed to stand still for an instant as the dread word “Fire!” flashed through his mind. Then he was quite steady, and strolled away saying quietly:

  “Smoking not allowed there, I’ll go and stop it.” But the instant he was out of sight his face changed, and he leaped down the hatchway, thinking, with a queer smile on his lips: “If we are afire, shouldn’t wonder if I did make a coral bed my grave!”

  He was gone a few minutes, and when he came up, half stifled with smoke, he was as white as a very brown man could be, but calm and cool as he went to report to the captain.

  “Fire in the hold, sir.”

  “Don’t frighten the women,” was Captain Hardy’s first order; then both bestirred themselves to discover how strong the treacherous enemy was, and to rout it if possible.

  The Brenda’s cargo was a very combustible one, and in spite of the streams of water poured into the hold it was soon evident that the ship was doomed. Smoke began to ooze up between the planks everywhere, and the rising gale soon fanned the smouldering fire to flames that began to break out here and there, telling the dreadful truth too plainly for anyone to hide. Mrs Hardy and Mary bore the shock bravely when told to be ready to quit the ship at a minute’s notice; the boats were hastily prepared, and the men worked with a will to batten down every loophole whence the fire might escape. Soon the poor Brenda was a floating furnace, and the order to “Take to the boats!” came for all. The women first, of course, and it was fortunate that, being a merchantman, there were no more passengers on board, so there was no panic, and one after the other the boats pushed off. That in which the women were lingered
near, for the brave captain would be the last to leave his ship.

  Emil stayed by him till ordered away, and reluctantly obeyed; but it was well for him he went, for just as he had regained the boat, rocking far below, half hidden by a cloud of smoke, a mast, undermined by the fire now raging in the bowels of the ship, fell with a crash, knocking Captain Hardy overboard. The boat soon reached him as he floated out from the wreck, and Emil sprung into the sea to rescue him, for he was wounded and senseless. This accident made it necessary for the young man to take command, and he at once ordered the men to pull for their lives, as an explosion might occur at any moment.

  The other boats were out of danger and all lingered to watch the splendid yet awesome spectacle of the burning ship alone on the wide sea, reddening the night and casting a lurid glare upon the water, where floated the frail boats filled with pale faces, all turned for a last look at the fated Brenda, slowly settling to her watery grave. No one saw the end, however, for the gale soon swept the watchers far away and separated them, some never to meet again till the sea gives up its dead.

  The boat whose fortunes we must follow was alone when dawn came up, showing these survivors all the dangers of their situation. Food and water had been put in, and such provision for comfort and safety as time allowed; but it was evident that with a badly wounded man, two women, and seven sailors, their supply would not last long, and help was sorely needed. Their only hope was in meeting a ship, although the gale, which had raged all night, had blown them out of their course. To this hope all clung, and wiled away the weary hours, watching the horizon and cheering one another with prophecies of speedy rescue.

  Second mate Hoffmann was very brave and helpful, though his unexpected responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders; for the captain’s state seemed desperate, the poor wife’s grief wrung his heart, and the blind confidence of the young girl in his power to save them made him feel that no sign of doubt or fear must lessen it. The men did their part readily now, but Emil knew that if starvation and despair made brutes of them, his task might be a terrible one. So he clutched his courage with both hands, kept up a manly front, and spoke so cheerily of their good chances, that all instinctively turned to him for guidance and support.