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."