BETH IS CRITICALLY ILL

Chapter 12

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 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 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 Hannah wouldn’t hear of “Mrs. March being told and worried just for a trifle.”
Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly. 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 face round 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.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and 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 a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, 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, the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo after standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlour, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things rushed out the storm. She was soon back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was minding again. Jo read it thankfully, but her 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 tragically 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.
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo’s cheeks, she stretched out her hand, as if groping in the dark and Laurie took it in his, whispering, with a lump in his throat, “I’m here; hold on to me, Jo, dear!”
“What is it?” cried Jo.
“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,” said Laurie to Jo.

“Laurie, you’re an angel! How shall I ever thank you?”
“Fly at me again; I rather like it,” said Laurie, looking mischievous.
Meg had a quiet rapture, while Jo set the sick-room 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 that sunshine brightened the quiet room; 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 on 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!”
Everyone rejoiced but Beth; she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy. 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 her, watching, waiting, hoping and trusting in God and mother; and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last; and every time and the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought health nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change for the better or worse would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return.
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. 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 the anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great at Washington, haunted the poor girls.
It was past two when Jo, who stood at the window, heard a movement by the bed, and, turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother’s easy chair, with her face hidden. A dreadful feat 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 lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sister, she kissed the damp forehead, and softly whispered, “Good-bye, my Beth; good-bye!”
As if waked 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, “The fever’s turned; she’s sleeping natural; her skin’s damp; and she breathes easily. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!”
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. “Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through. 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.

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