Little Women
Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a
smile, and said bravely, “I drink— Health to my Beth! You are a good
doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?”
she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done
her troubled mind.
“I’ll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I’ll give you something that
will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine,” said
Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at
something.
“What is it?” cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
“I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she’d come
at once, and she’ll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.
Aren’t you glad I did it?”
Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for
he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or
harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the
moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms
round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, “Oh, Laurie! Oh,
Mother! I am so glad!” She did not weep again, but laughed
hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a
little bewildered by the sudden news.
Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind.
He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering,
followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at
once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying
breathlessly, “Oh, don’t! I didn’t mean to, it was dreadful of me, but
you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn’t
help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don’t give me wine again,
it makes me act so.”
“I don’t mind,” laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. “Why, you see I
got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the
authority business, and your mother ought to know. She’d never forgive
us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to
say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office
yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head
off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be ‘lorded over’,
so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know,
and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you’ve
only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that
blessed lady gets here.”
“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?”
“Fly at me again. I rather liked it,” said Laurie, looking mischievous,
a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
“No, thank you. I’ll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don’t
tease, but go home and rest, for you’ll be up half the night. Bless
you, Teddy, bless you!”
Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a
dresser and told the assembled cats that she was “happy, oh, so happy!”
while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of
it.
“That’s the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do
hope Mrs. March is coming right away,” said Hannah, with an air of
relief, when Jo told the good news.
Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set
the sickroom in order, and Hannah “knocked up a couple of pies in case
of company unexpected”. A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through
the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet
rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth’s bird
began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy’s
bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness,
and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as
they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, “Mother’s coming,
dear! Mother’s coming!” Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that
heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It
was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once
busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and
the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the
pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter,
“Water!” with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All day
Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in
God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and
the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the
clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed,
looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help
nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or
worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would
return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed’s foot and fell
fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling
that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March’s countenance
as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring
into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes
beautifully soft and clear.
The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they
kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes
to us in hours like those.
“If God spares Beth, I never will complain again,” whispered Meg
earnestly.
“If God spares Beth, I’ll try to love and serve Him all my life,”
answered Jo, with equal fervor.
“I wish I had no heart, it aches so,” sighed Meg, after a pause.
“If life is often as hard as this, I don’t see how we ever shall get
through it,” added her sister despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching
Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was
still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep
hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale
shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and
nothing happened except Laurie’s quiet departure for the station.
Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the
storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at
Washington, haunted the girls.
It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary
the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the
bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy
chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as
she thought, “Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me.”
She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great
change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain
were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in
its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning
low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with
her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, “Good-by, my Beth.
Good-by!”
As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to
the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and
then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro,
exclaiming, under her breath, “The fever’s turned, she’s sleepin’
nat’ral, her skin’s damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh,
my goodness me!”
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to
confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite
heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, “Yes,
my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the
house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her...”
What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark
hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with
hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled
by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her
cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing
quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
“If Mother would only come now!” said Jo, as the winter night began to
wane.
“See,” said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, “I thought
this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth’s hand tomorrow if she—went
away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put
it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she
sees will be the little rose, and Mother’s face.”
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed
so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out
in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
“It looks like a fairy world,” said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
“Hark!” cried Jo, starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah,
and then Laurie’s voice saying in a joyful whisper, “Girls, she’s come!
She’s come!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AMY’S WILL
While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at
Aunt March’s. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her
life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March
never petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be
kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt
March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew’s children,
though she didn’t think it proper to confess it. She really did her
best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old
people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can
sympathize with children’s little cares and joys, make them feel at
home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and
receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this
gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim
ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable
than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract,
as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So
she took Amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught
sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to Amy’s soul, and made
her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.
She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned
spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone. Then
she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was. Not a speck
escaped Aunt March’s eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much
carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly had to be fed, the
lap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or
deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big
chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was
a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one
hour for exercise or play, and didn’t she enjoy it?
Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March till Amy was allowed to
go out with him, when they walked and rode and had capital times. After
dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept,
which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first
page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward
meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse
herself as she liked till teatime. The evenings were the worst of all,
for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were