Little Women
old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means
wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at
this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he’s seen the last of
his Pewmonia.
Yours respectful,
Hannah Mullet
Head Nurse of Ward No. 2,
All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary
department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on
duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily,
Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket
duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of
good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at
headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is
heartily joined by...
COLONEL TEDDY
Dear Madam:
The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is
a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine
weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if
expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything.
Thank God he is mending.
Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LITTLE FAITHFUL
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied
the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a
heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved
of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed
their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old
ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy
seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt
that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough,
and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March
didn’t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked
this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on
the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that
housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud
pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at
home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or
reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with
only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.
All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her
sisters’ also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a
clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with
longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain
closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her
little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody
knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet
and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort
or advice in their small affairs.
All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and
when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and
deserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do
well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
“Meg, I wish you’d go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not
to forget them.” said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March’s departure.
“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking comfortably
as she sewed.
“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth.
“Too stormy for me with my cold.”
“I thought it was almost well.”
“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to
go to the Hummels’,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of
her inconsistency.
“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg.
“I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don’t know what to
do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of
it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to
go.”
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow.
“Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air
will do you good,” said Jo, adding apologetically, “I’d go but I want
to finish my writing.”
“My head aches and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,”
said Beth.
“Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,” suggested
Meg.
So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and
the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went
to her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and
Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put
on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor
children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a
grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and
no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother’s room.
Half an hour after, Jo went to ‘Mother’s closet’ for something, and
there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very
grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.
“Christopher Columbus! What’s the matter?” cried Jo, as Beth put out
her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . .
“You’ve had the scarlet fever, haven’t you?”
“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?”
“Then I’ll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!”
“What baby?”
“Mrs. Hummel’s. It died in my lap before she got home,” cried Beth with
a sob.
“My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,” said Jo,
taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother’s big
chair, with a remorseful face.
“It wasn’t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker,
but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and
let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little
cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet,
and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn’t stir, and I knew it was
dead.”
“Don’t cry, dear! What did you do?”
“I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor.
He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore
throats. ‘Scarlet fever, ma’am. Ought to have called me before,’ he
said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure
baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to
help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and
was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned
round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right
away, or I’d have the fever.”
“No, you won’t!” cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.
“Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What
shall we do?”
“Don’t be frightened, I guess I shan’t have it badly. I looked in
Mother’s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and
queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel
better,” said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and
trying to look well.
“If Mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and
feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked
at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely,
“You’ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among
the others who are going to have it, so I’m afraid you are going to
have it, Beth. I’ll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness.”
“Don’t let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to
her. Can’t you and Meg have it over again?” asked Beth, anxiously.
“I guess not. Don’t care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let
you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!” muttered Jo, as she went to
consult Hannah.
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever,
and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt
much relieved as they went up to call Meg.
“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Hannah, when she had examined
and questioned Beth, “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at
you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we’ll send Amy off to Aunt
March’s for a spell, to keep her out of harm’s way, and one of you
girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.”
“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest,” began Meg, looking anxious and
self-reproachful.
“I shall, because it’s my fault she is sick. I told Mother I’d do the
errands, and I haven’t,” said Jo decidedly.
“Which will you have, Beth? There ain’t no need of but one,” aid
Hannah.
“Jo, please.” And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a
contented look, which effectually settled that point.
“I’ll go and tell Amy,” said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather
relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.
Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather
have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and
commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg
left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came
back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head
in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled, but
Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room,
whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he
sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, “Now be a
sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don’t cry, but hear what
a jolly plan I’ve got. You go to Aunt March’s, and I’ll come and take
you out every day, driving or walking, and we’ll have capital times.
Won’t that be better than moping here?”
“I don’t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,” began Amy, in an
injured voice.
“Bless your heart, child, it’s to keep you well. You don’t want to be
sick, do you?”
“No, I’m sure I don’t, but I dare say I shall be, for I’ve been with
Beth all the time.”
“That’s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may
escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if
it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise
you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.”
“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,” said Amy, looking
rather frightened.
“It won’t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is,
and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I’ll be as
sweet as possible to her, so she won’t peck at us, whatever we do.”
“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?”
“On my honor as a gentleman.”
“And come every single day?”
“See if I don’t!”
“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?”
“The identical minute.”
“And go to the theater, truly?”
“A dozen theaters, if we may.”
“Well—I guess I will,” said Amy slowly.
“Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said Laurie, with
an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the ‘giving in’.
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been
wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised
to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet,
and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
“She is lying down on Mother’s bed, and feels better. The baby’s death
troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she
thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,” answered
Meg.
“What a trying world it is!” said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful