Jack and Jill

by Louisa May Alcott

  Chapter XX. A Sweet Memory

  Now the lovely June days had come, everything began to look reallysummer-like; school would soon be over, and the young people werejoyfully preparing for the long vacation.

  "We are all going up to Bethlehem. We take the seashore one year and themountains the next. Better come along," said Gus, as the boys lay onthe grass after beating the Lincolns at one of the first matches of theseason.

  "Can't; we are off to Pebbly Beach the second week in July. Our invalidsneed sea air. That one looks delicate, doesn't he?" asked Frank, givingJack a slight rap with his bat as that young gentleman lay in his usualattitude admiring the blue hose and russet shoes which adorned hissturdy limbs.

  "Stop that, Captain! You needn't talk about invalids, when you knowmother says you are not to look at a book for a month because youhave studied yourself thin and headachy. I'm all right;" and Jack gavehimself a sounding slap on the chest, where shone the white star of theH.B.B.C.

  "Hear the little cockerel crow! you just wait till you get into thecollege class, and see if you don't have to study like fun," said Gus,with unruffled composure, for he was going to Harvard next year, andfelt himself already a Senior.

  "Never shall; I don't want any of your old colleges. I'm going intobusiness as soon as I can. Ed says I may be his book-keeper, if I amready when he starts for himself. That is much jollier than grindingaway for four years, and then having to grind ever so many more at aprofession," said Jack, examining with interest the various knocks andbruises with which much ball-playing had adorned his hands.

  "Much you know about it. Just as well you don't mean to try, for itwould take a mighty long pull and strong pull to get you in. Businesswould suit you better, and you and Ed would make a capital partnership.Devlin, Minot, & Co. sounds well, hey, Gus?"

  "Very, but they are such good-natured chaps, they'd never get rich.By the way, Ed came home at noon to-day sick. I met him, and he lookedregularly knocked up," answered Gus, in a sober tone.

  "I told him he'd better not go down Monday, for he wasn't well Saturday,and couldn't come to sing Sunday evening, you remember. I must go rightround and see what the matter is;" and Jack jumped up, with an anxiousface.

  "Let him alone till to-morrow. He won't want any one fussing over himnow. We are going for a pull; come along and steer," said Frank, forthe sunset promised to be fine, and the boys liked a brisk row in theirnewly painted boat, the "Rhodora."

  "Go ahead and get ready, I'll just cut round and ask at the door. Itwill seem kind, and I must know how Ed is. Won't be long;" and Jack wasoff at his best pace.

  The others were waiting impatiently when he came back with slower stepsand a more anxious face.

  "How is the old fellow?" called Frank from the boat, while Gus stoodleaning on an oar in a nautical attitude.

  "Pretty sick. Had the doctor. May have a fever. I didn't go in, but Edsent his love, and wanted to know who beat," answered Jack, stepping tohis place, glad to rest and cool himself.

  "Guess he'll be all right in a day or two;" and Gus pushed off, leavingall care behind.

  "Hope he won't have typhoid--that's no joke, I tell you," said Frank,who knew all about it, and did not care to repeat the experience.

  "He's worked too hard. He's so faithful he does more than his share, andgets tired out. Mother asked him to come down and see us when he has hisvacation; we are going to have high old times fishing and boating. Up ordown?" asked Jack, as they glided out into the river.

  Gus looked both ways, and seeing another boat with a glimpse of red init just going round the bend, answered, with decision, "Up, of course.Don't we always pull to the bridge?"

  "Not when the girls are going down," laughed Jack, who had recognizedJuliet's scarlet boating-suit as he glanced over his shoulder.

  "Mind what you are about, and don't gabble," commanded Captain Frank, asthe crew bent to their oars and the slender boat cut through the waterleaving a long furrow trembling behind.

  "Oh, ah! I see! There is a blue jacket as well as a red one, so it's allright.

  "Lady Queen Anne, she sits in the sun, As white as a lily, as brown as a bun,"

  sung Jack, recovering his spirits, and wishing Jill was there too.

  "Do you want a ducking?" sternly demanded Gus, anxious to preservediscipline.

  "Shouldn't mind, its so warm."

  But Jack said no more, and soon the "Rhodora" was alongside the "WaterWitch," exchanging greetings in the most amiable manner.

  "Pity this boat won't hold four. We'd put Jack in yours, and take yougirls a nice spin up to the Hemlocks," said Frank, whose idea of blisswas floating down the river with Annette as coxswain.

  "You'd better come in here, this will hold four, and we are tired ofrowing," returned the "Water Witch," so invitingly that Gus could notresist.

  "I don't think it is safe to put four in there. You'd better changeplaces with Annette, Gus, and then we shall be ship-shape," said Frank,answering a telegram from the eyes that matched the blue jacket.

  "Wouldn't it be _more_ ship-shape still if you put me ashore at Grif'slanding? I can take his boat, or wait till you come back. Don't carewhat I do," said Jack, feeling himself sadly in the way.

  The good-natured offer being accepted with thanks, the changes weremade, and, leaving him behind, the two boats went gayly up the river. Hereally did not care what he did, so sat in Grif's boat awhile watchingthe red sky, the shining stream, and the low green meadows, where theblackbirds were singing as if they too had met their little sweetheartsand were happy.

  Jack remembered that quiet half-hour long afterward, because whatfollowed seemed to impress it on his memory. As he sat enjoying thescene, he very naturally thought about Ed; for the face of the sisterwhom he saw was very anxious, and the word "fever" recalled the hardtimes when Frank was ill, particularly the night it was thought the boywould not live till dawn, and Jack cried himself to sleep, wondering howhe ever could get on without his brother. Ed was almost as dear to him,and the thought that he was suffering destroyed Jack's pleasure fora little while. But, fortunately, young people do not know how to beanxious very long, so our boy soon cheered up, thinking about the latematch between the Stars and the Lincolns, and after a good rest wentwhistling home, with a handful of mint for Mrs. Pecq, and played gameswith Jill as merrily as if there was no such thing as care in the world.

  Next day Ed was worse, and for a week the answer was the same, when Jackcrept to the back door with his eager question.

  Others came also, for the dear boy lying upstairs had friendseverywhere, and older neighbors thought of him even more anxiously andtenderly than his mates. It was not fever, but some swifter trouble, forwhen Saturday night came, Ed had gone home to a longer and more peacefulSabbath than any he had ever known in this world.

  Jack had been there in the afternoon, and a kind message had come downto him that his friend was not suffering so much, and he had gone away,hoping, in his boyish ignorance, that all danger was over. An hour laterhe was reading in the parlor, having no heart for play, when Frank camein with a look upon his face which would have prepared Jack for the newsif he had seen it. But he did not look up, and Frank found it so hard tospeak, that he lingered a moment at the piano, as he often did whenhe came home. It stood open, and on the rack was the "Jolly Brothers'Galop," which he had been learning to play with Ed. Big boy as he was,the sudden thought that never again would they sit shoulder to shoulder,thundering the marches or singing the songs both liked so well, made hiseyes fill as he laid away the music, and shut the instrument, feeling asif he never wanted to touch it again. Then he went and sat down besideJack with an arm round his neck, trying to steady his voice by a naturalquestion before he told the heavy news.

  "What are you reading, Jacky?"

  The unusual caress, the very gentle tone, made Jack look up, and theminute he saw Frank's face he knew the truth.

  "Is Ed----?" he could not say the hard word, and Frank could only answerby a nod as he winked fast, f
or the tears would come. Jack said no more,but as the book dropped from his knee he hid his face in the sofa-pillowand lay quite still, not crying, but trying to make it seem true thathis dear Ed had gone away for ever. He could not do it, and presentlyturned his head a little to say, in a despairing tone,--

  "I don't see what I _shall_ do without him!"

  "I know it's hard for you. It is for all of us."

  "You've got Gus, but now I haven't anybody. Ed was always so good tome!" and with the name so many tender recollections came, that poor Jackbroke down in spite of his manful attempts to smother the sobs in thered pillow.

  There was an unconscious reproach in the words, Frank thought; forhe was not as gentle as Ed, and he did not wonder that Jack loved andmourned for the lost friend like a brother.

  "You've got me. I'll be good to you; cry if you want to, I don't mind."

  There was such a sympathetic choke in Frank's voice that Jack feltcomforted at once, and when he had had his cry out, which was very soon,he let Frank pull him up with a bear-like but affectionate hug, and satleaning on him as they talked about their loss, both feeling that theremight have been a greater one, and resolving to love one another verymuch hereafter.

  Mrs. Minot often called Frank the "father-boy," because he was now thehead of the house, and a sober, reliable fellow for his years. Usuallyhe did not show much affection except to her, for, as he once said, "Ishall never be too old to kiss my mother," and she often wished that hehad a little sister, to bring out the softer side of his character. Hedomineered over Jack and laughed at his affectionate little ways, butnow when trouble came, he was as kind and patient as a girl; andwhen Mamma came in, having heard the news, she found her "father-boy"comforting his brother so well that she slipped away without a word,leaving them to learn one of the sweet lessons sorrow teaches--to leanon one another, and let each trial bring them closer together.

  It is often said that there should be no death or grief in children'sstories. It is not wise to dwell on the dark and sad side of thesethings; but they have also a bright and lovely side, and since even theyoungest, dearest, and most guarded child cannot escape some knowledgeof the great mystery, is it not well to teach them in simple, cheerfulways that affection sweetens sorrow, and a lovely life can make deathbeautiful? I think so, therefore try to tell the last scene in thehistory of a boy who really lived and really left behind him a memory soprecious that it will not be soon forgotten by those who knew and lovedhim. For the influence of this short life was felt by many, and eventhis brief record of it may do for other children what the reality didfor those who still lay flowers on his grave, and try to be "as good asEddy."

  Few would have thought that the death of a quiet lad of seventeenwould have been so widely felt, so sincerely mourned; but virtue, likesunshine, works its own sweet miracles, and when it was known that neveragain would the bright face be seen in the village streets, the cheeryvoice heard, the loving heart felt in any of the little acts which soendeared Ed Devlin to those about him, it seemed as if young and oldgrieved alike for so much promise cut off in its spring-time. This wasproved at the funeral, for, though it took place at the busy hour of abusy day, men left their affairs, women their households, young peopletheir studies and their play, and gave an hour to show their affection,respect, and sympathy for those who had lost so much.

  The girls had trimmed the church with all the sweetest flowers theycould find, and garlands of lilies of the valley robbed the casket ofits mournful look. The boys had brought fresh boughs to make the gravea green bed for their comrade's last sleep. Now they were all gatheredtogether, and it was a touching sight to see the rows of young facessobered and saddened by their first look at sorrow. The girls sobbed,and the boys set their lips tightly as their glances fell upon thelilies under which the familiar face lay full of solemn peace. Tearsdimmed older eyes when the hymn the dead boy loved was sung, and thepastor told with how much pride and pleasure he had watched the graciousgrowth of this young parishioner since he first met the lad of twelveand was attracted by the shining face, the pleasant manners. Dutifuland loving; ready to help; patient to bear and forbear; eager to excel;faithful to the smallest task, yet full of high ambitions; and, betterstill, possessing the childlike piety that can trust and believe, waitand hope. Good and happy--the two things we all long for and so few ofus truly are. This he was, and this single fact was the best eulogy hispastor could pronounce over the beloved youth gone to a nobler manhoodwhose promise left so sweet a memory behind.

  As the young people looked, listened, and took in the scene, they feltas if some mysterious power had changed their playmate from a creaturelike themselves into a sort of saint or hero for them to look up to, andimitate if they could. "What has he done, to be so loved, praised, andmourned?" they thought, with a tender sort of wonder; and the answerseemed to come to them as never before, for never had they been broughtso near the solemn truth of life and death. "It was not what he did butwhat he was that made him so beloved. All that was sweet and noble inhim still lives; for goodness is the only thing we can take with us whenwe die, the only thing that can comfort those we leave behind, and helpus to meet again hereafter."

  This feeling was in many hearts when they went away to lay him, withprayer and music, under the budding oak that leaned over his grave,a fit emblem of the young life just beginning its new spring. As thechildren did their part, the beauty of the summer day soothed theirsorrow, and something of the soft brightness of the June sunshine seemedto gild their thoughts, as it gilded the flower-strewn mound they leftbehind. The true and touching words spoken cheered as well as impressedthem, and made them feel that their friend was not lost but gone oninto a higher class of the great school whose Master is eternal loveand wisdom. So the tears soon dried, and the young faces looked up likeflowers after rain. But the heaven-sent shower sank into the earth, andthey were the stronger, sweeter for it, more eager to make life braveand beautiful, because death had gently shown them what it should be.

  When the boys came home they found their mother already returned, andJill upon the parlor sofa listening to her account of the funeral withthe same quiet, hopeful look which their own faces wore; for somehow thesadness seemed to have gone, and a sort of Sunday peace remained.

  "I'm glad it was all so sweet and pleasant. Come and rest, you lookso tired;" and Jill held out her hands to greet them--a crumpledhandkerchief in one and a little bunch of fading lilies in the other.

  Jack sat down in the low chair beside her and leaned his head againstthe arm of the sofa, for he was tired. But Frank walked slowly up anddown the long rooms with a serious yet serene look on his face, for hefelt as if he had learned something that day, and would always be thebetter for it. Presently he said, stopping before his mother, who leanedin the easy-chair looking up at the picture of her boys' father,--

  "I should like to have just such things said about me when I die."

  "So should I, if I deserved them as Ed did!" cried Jack, earnestly.

  "You may if you try. I should be proud to hear them, and if they weretrue, they would comfort me more than anything else. I am glad you seethe lovely side of sorrow, and are learning the lesson such losses teachus," answered their mother, who believed in teaching young people toface trouble bravely, and find the silver lining in the clouds that cometo all of us.

  "I never thought much about it before, but now dying doesn't seemdreadful at all--only solemn and beautiful. Somehow everybody seems tolove everybody else more for it, and try to be kind and good and pious.I can't say what I mean, but you know, mother;" and Frank went pacingon again with the bright look his eyes always wore when he listened tomusic or read of some noble action.

  "That's what Merry said when she and Molly came in on their way home.But Molly felt dreadfully, and so did Mabel. She brought me theseflowers to press, for we are all going to keep some to remember dear Edby," said Jill, carefully smoothing out the little bells as she laid thelilies in her hymn-book, for she too had had a thoughtful hou
r while shelay alone, imagining all that went on in the church, and shedding a fewtender tears over the friend who was always so kind to her.

  "I don't want anything to remember him by. I was so fond of him, Icouldn't forget if I tried. I know I ought not to say it, but I _don't_see why God let him die," said Jack, with a quiver in his voice, for hisloving heart could not help aching still.

  "No, dear, we cannot see or know many things that grieve us very much,but we _can_ trust that it is right, and try to believe that all ismeant for our good. That is what faith means, and without it we aremiserable. When you were little, you were afraid of the dark, but if Ispoke or touched you, then you were sure all was well, and fell asleepholding my hand. God is wiser and stronger than any father or mother,so hold fast to Him, and you will have no doubt or fear, however dark itseems."

  "As you do," said Jack, going to sit on the arm of Mamma's chair, withhis cheek to hers, willing to trust as she bade him, but glad to holdfast the living hand that had led and comforted him all his life.

  "Ed used to say to me when I fretted about getting well, and thoughtnobody cared for me, which was very naughty, 'Don't be troubled, Godwon't forget you; and if you must be lame, He will make you able tobear it,'" said Jill, softly, her quick little mind all alive with newthoughts and feelings.

  "He believed it, and that's why he liked that hymn so much. I'm gladthey sung it to-day," said Frank, bringing his heavy dictionary to layon the book where the flowers were pressing.

  "Oh, thank you! Could you play that tune for me? I didn't hear it, andI'd love to, if you are willing," asked Jill.

  "I didn't think I ever should want to play again, but I do. Will yousing it for her, mother? I'm afraid I shall break down if I try alone."

  "We will all sing, music is good for us now," said Mamma; and in ratherbroken voices they did sing Ed's favorite words:--

  "Not a sparrow falleth but its God doth know, Just as when his mandate lays a monarch low; Not a leaflet moveth, but its God doth see, Think not, then, O mortal, God forgetteth thee. Far more precious surely than the birds that fly Is a Father's image to a Father's eye. E'en thy hairs are numbered; trust Him full and free, Cast thy cares before Him, He will comfort thee; For the God that planted in thy breast a soul, On his sacred tables doth thy name enroll. Cheer thine heart, then, mortal, never faithless be, He that marks the sparrows will remember thee."