Little Women
way. “No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.
There doesn’t seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother’s gone, so
I’m all at sea.”
“Well, don’t make a porcupine of yourself, it isn’t becoming. Settle
your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do
anything?” asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of
his friend’s one beauty.
“That is what troubles me,” said Meg. “I think we ought to tell her if
Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn’t, for Mother can’t leave
Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won’t be sick long,
and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her,
so I suppose we must, but it doesn’t seem quite right to me.”
“Hum, well, I can’t say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor
has been.”
“We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once,” commanded Meg. “We can’t
decide anything till he has been.”
“Stay where you are, Jo. I’m errand boy to this establishment,” said
Laurie, taking up his cap.
“I’m afraid you are busy,” began Meg.
“No, I’ve done my lessons for the day.”
“Do you study in vacation time?” asked Jo.
“I follow the good example my neighbors set me,” was Laurie’s answer,
as he swung himself out of the room.
“I have great hopes for my boy,” observed Jo, watching him fly over the
fence with an approving smile.
“He does very well, for a boy,” was Meg’s somewhat ungracious answer,
for the subject did not interest her.
Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she
would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story.
Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off
danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.
Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality.
“What do you want now?” she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles,
while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...
“Go away. No boys allowed here.”
Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story.
“No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among
poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn’t sick,
which I’ve no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don’t cry, child,
it worries me to hear people sniff.”
Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot’s
tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out,
“Bless my boots!” in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
“What do you hear from your mother?” asked the old lady gruffly.
“Father is much better,” replied Jo, trying to keep sober.
“Oh, is he? Well, that won’t last long, I fancy. March never had any
stamina,” was the cheerful reply.
“Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!”
squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady’s cap
as Laurie tweaked him in the rear.
“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you’d better go
at once. It isn’t proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated
boy like...”
“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly, tumbling
off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the ‘rattlepated’ boy,
who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
“I don’t think I can bear it, but I’ll try,” thought Amy, as she was
left alone with Aunt March.
“Get along, you fright!” screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy
could not restrain a sniff.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DARK DAYS
Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and
the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.
Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own
way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the
excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,
and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote
letters in which no mention was made of Beth’s illness. She could not
think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind
Hannah, and Hannah wouldn’t hear of ‘Mrs. March bein’ told, and worried
just for sech a trifle.’
Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was
very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could
control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she
began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if
on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen
that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar
faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called
imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be
allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she ‘would think of
it, though there was no danger yet’. A letter from Washington added to
their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of
coming home for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how
heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while
the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that
Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how
rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could
buy—in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life.
Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering
little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding
in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth’s
nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts,
and to acknowledge the worth of Beth’s unselfish ambition to live for
others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues
which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than
talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be
at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service
would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how
many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie
haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the
grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young
neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone
missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she
did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to
get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and
good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find
how many friends shy little Beth had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in
her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for
her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick,
and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent
loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write
soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that
Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these
intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing
to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy
sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day,
Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to
send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth’s side.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter
wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its
death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held
the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down,
saying, in a low voice to Hannah, “If Mrs. March can leave her husband
she’d better be sent for.”
Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg
dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs
at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a
minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on
her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while
noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying
that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy
weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of
misery that Laurie asked quickly, “What is it? Is Beth worse?”
“I’ve sent for Mother,” said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a
tragic expression.
“Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?” asked
Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious
boots, seeing how her hands shook.
“No. The doctor told us to.”
“Oh, Jo, it’s not so bad as that?” cried Laurie, with a startled face.
“Yes, it is. She doesn’t know us, she doesn’t even talk about the
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She
doesn’t look like my Beth, and there’s nobody to help us bear it.
Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can’t find
Him.”
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her
hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie
took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his
throat, “I’m here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!”
She could not speak, but she did ‘hold on’, and the warm grasp of the
friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her
nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.
Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting
words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as
her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far
more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken
sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection
administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her,
and looked up with a grateful face.
“Thank you, Teddy, I’m better now. I don’t feel so forlorn, and will
try to bear it if it comes.”
“Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother
will be here, and then everything will be all right.”
“I’m so glad Father is better. Now she won’t feel so bad about leaving
him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I
got the heaviest part on my shoulders,” sighed Jo, spreading her wet
handkerchief over her knees to dry.
“Doesn’t Meg pull fair?” asked Laurie, looking indignant.
“Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can’t love Bethy as I do, and she won’t
miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can’t give her up. I
can’t! I can’t!”
Down went Jo’s face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a
tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he
had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It
might be unmanly, but he couldn’t help it, and I am glad of it.
Presently, as Jo’s sobs quieted, he said hopefully, “I don’t think she
will die. She’s so good, and we all love her so much, I don’t believe
God will take her away yet.”
“The good and dear people always do die,” groaned Jo, but she stopped
crying, for her friend’s words cheered her up in spite of her own
doubts and fears.
“Poor girl, you’re worn out. It isn’t like you to be forlorn. Stop a
bit. I’ll hearten you up in a jiffy.”
Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down
on Beth’s little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from
the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the
submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when