Chapter 11
Nobody talked much, but, as the time drew, and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, “Children, I leave you to Hannah’s care and Mr. Laurence’s protection. Don’t grieve and fret when I have gone. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy; and, whatever happens, remember that you can never be fatherless.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters; consult Hannah, and, in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo; don’t get despondent, or do rash things; write to me often, and be faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy.”
“We will, mother! We will!”
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well; no one cried or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were heavy as they sent loving messages to father, remembering that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.
Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong, and sensible, and kind, that the girls christened him “Mr. Greatheart,” on the spot.
“Good-bye, my darlings! God bless and keep us all,” whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage.
As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back she saw it shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing she beheld, as she turned the corner, was the four bright faces, and behind them, like a body-guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie.
News from their father comforted the girls; for, though dangerously ill, the presence of the tenderest of nurse had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the despatches, which grew more cheering as the week passed.
Everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter-box, by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence.
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighbourhood. It was 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 the old ways.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglecting to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, Jo liked this, and subsided on to the sofa to nurse and art did not go well together, and returned the cold with assericum and books. Amy found that housework mud pies. Meg went daily to her kingdom, and sewed at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington despatches 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 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 certain 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.
“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 most well.”
“It’s well enough to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed.
“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 story.”
“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 Hunnah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled the 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 in her mother’s room. Half an hour after Jo had gone to ‘mother’s closet’ for something, and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest looking very grave, with red eyes, and a camphor bottle in her hand.
“If mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, “I’m afraid you’re 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 Jo that there was no need to worry; everyone 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 exclaimed and questioned Beth; “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to look at you, dear; then we’ll send Amy off to Aunt March’s for a spell to keep her rout of harm’s way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.”
Amy rebelled outright, and declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg left in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlour, 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 softely. Presently, he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedle some tone, “Now be a sensible little woman, and hear what 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.”
“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 how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting.”
“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?”
“Oh my honour 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 theatre truly?”
“Well—I guess—I will,” said Amy slowly.
“Good girls! Sing out for Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said Laurie.
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.
“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie; for Beth was his special pet.
“She is lying down on mother’s bed, and feels better. The baby’s death troubled her, but I dare say she had only got cold. Hannah says she think so; but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,” answered Meg.
Dr. Bangs came and said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she would have it lightly, though he had looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger; she departed in a great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort.
‘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’re a fright!” screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.
