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 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 that 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 it 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."
[Illustration: 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 got 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. "O
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 Jo 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," said
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?"
[Illustration: He sat down beside her]
"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 theatre, truly?"
"A dozen theatres, 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
sort of 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 of 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 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,--
[Illustration: What do you want now?]
"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, good by, good by!"
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 rattle-pated
boy like--"
"Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling
off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the "rattle-pated" 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.
XVIII.
DARK DAYS.
[Illustration: Beth did have the fever]
Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one 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 all 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 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.
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 the 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. Every one
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 _protégé_. 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 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 as 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 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
tragical 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."
"O 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.
[Illustration: Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do]
"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 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
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 in my bill, by and by; and to-night 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 to-night, 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, "O Laurie! O 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 like 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 rather a neat
thing of it.
"That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and do
hope Mrs. March is coming on 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 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 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 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 anxious
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.