“What have you been at today, bübchen?” asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast.
“Me went to see little Mary.”
“And what did you there?”
“I kissed her,” began Demi, with artless frankness.
“Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?” asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket.
“Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don’t little boys like little girls?” added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction.
“You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?” said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelations as much as the Professor.
“ ’Tisn’t in mine head; it’s in mine mouf,” answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
“Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet, mannling;” and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired—“Do great boys like great girls, too, ’Fessor?”
Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer “couldn’t tell a lie;” so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo’s retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the “precocious chick” had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.
Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
XLVI
Under the Umbrella
While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.
“I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don’t know why I should give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor on his way out,” said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters; for, though there were two paths to Meg’s, whichever one she took she was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her till quite close, when he would look as if his shortsighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg’s, he always had something for the babies; if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just about returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.
Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, “as Friedrich—I mean Mr. Bhaer—doesn’t like tea.”
By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo’s face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise; and no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.
Jo couldn’t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer “a capital old fellow” in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo’s improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor’s hat on the Marches’ hall-table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat-of-arms.
For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity; then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign—a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then—alas for romance!—very cross.
“Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It’s nothing to me, of course; but I should think he would have come and bid us goodbye, like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk, one dull afternoon.
“You’d better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain,” said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact.
“Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and get some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
“Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?”
“I believe so,” answered Jo absently.
“If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man,” added Mrs. March.
Jo heard that, but made no
