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 windows 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 grandfather'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 disappointed, 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 particularly 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,