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 poor 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 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, 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 to-morrow 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!"
[Illustration: Amy's Will]
XIX.
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 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 in 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.
[Illustration: Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot]
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 must 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 tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell
to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull
that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard
fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a
tear or two.
If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that
she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone
was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not
admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He
pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to
plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking
at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and behaved
in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure
the dog,--a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she
made his toilet, and who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air
and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to
eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the
old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of
the young lady.
[Illustration: On his back, with all his legs in the air]
Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called her
mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady,
who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but
Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that
she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to
Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in
France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also
allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and
pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests;
for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian
cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeon-holes, and secret places,
in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely
curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things
gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on
velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty
years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came
out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her lover's
diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with
portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of hair inside; the
baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle March's big
watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in
a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for
her fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of
them all.
[Illustration: I should choose this]
"Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, who
always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
"I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm
fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I
might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold
and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
"I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a
rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic," said Esther,
eying the handsome thing wistfully.
"Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads
hanging over your glass?" asked Amy.
"Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one
used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."
"You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and
always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could."
"If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but, as
that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to
meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame.
She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble."
"Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her
loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was
apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her
of it.
"It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the
little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but
when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and
pray the dear God to preserve your sister."
Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an
affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy
liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her
room, hoping it would do her good.
"I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March
dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the
jewel-cases one by one.
"To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed
her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling.
"How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation is
not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
"It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first
one who is affianced will have the pearls--Madame has said it; and I
have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when
you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners."
"Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely
ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt
March, after all;" and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face,
and a firm resolve to earn it.
From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady
complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the
closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a
picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no
great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that
Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a very
valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's
beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of
the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her
heart. On the table she laid her little Testament and hymn-book, kept a
vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every
day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to
preserve her sister." Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with
a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful
as to its fitness for Protestant prayers.
The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone
outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold
by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender
Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children.
She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having
been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in
it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden
seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be
satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In
her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will,
as Aunt March had done; so that if she _did_ fall ill and die, her
possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang
even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were
as precious as the old lady's jewels.
During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as
well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms,
and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt
relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second
witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in
one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this
room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which
Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array
herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long
mirror, making stately courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a
rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she
did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she
gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on
which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue
brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk
carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo
afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay
suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as
well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "Ain't
we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha!
ha!"
[Illustration: Gravely promenaded to and fro]
Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it
should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received.
"Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult
you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown her
splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the trial of my
life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while
Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. "Yesterday, when aunt was
asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to
squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a
big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly
marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase,
saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, 'Come out and take a
walk, my dear.' I _couldn't_ help laughing, which made Poll swear, and
aunt woke up and scolded us both."
"Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie,
yawning.
"Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and
scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her! catch
her!' as I chased the spider.
"That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes.
"I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie,
shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely
croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!"
"Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out
of her pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is
legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and
I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb."
[Illustration: Amy's Will]
Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read
the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the
spelling:--
"MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT.
"I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and
bequeethe all my earthly property--viz. to wit:--namely
"To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of
art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with.
"To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with
pockets,--also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
"To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get
it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of
real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of
her 'little girl.'
"To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax,
also my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most
precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her
story.
"To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little
bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can
wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also
leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna.
"To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my
paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did
say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in
the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes,
Noter Dame is the best.
"To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box
with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his
pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his
favors to her family, specially Beth.
"I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk
apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
"To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work
I leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.'
"And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all
will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one,
and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen.
"To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th
day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861.
"AMY CURTIS MARCH.
{ESTELLE VALNOR,
"_Witnesses_: {
{THEODORE LAURENCE."
The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to
rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly.
"What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's giving
away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape,
with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?"
"I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day
that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you,
and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was
sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of
us, and her best love to grandpa. _She_ never thought of a will."
Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a
great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she
only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills,
sometimes?"
"Yes; 'codicils,' they call them."
"Put one in mine then--that I wish _all_ my curls cut off, and given
round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will
spoil my looks."
Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he
amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But
when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with trembling lips,
"Is there really any danger about Beth?"
"I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry,
dear;" and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which
was very comforting.
When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the
twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart,
feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the
loss of her gentle little sister.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side]
XX.
CONFIDENTIAL.
I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the
mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to
describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely
saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's
tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing
sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell _were_ the little rose
and mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and
nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry
longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls
waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which
clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing
breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her
excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like
dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of
father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays
which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable
comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out
with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.
What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without,
for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and
reposeful within, for every one slept, spent with watching, and a
Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah
mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off,
Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten
boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave
Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at,
touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered
treasure.
Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well
that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told
you so." Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good
thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her
tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never
even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in
Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman." Even
Polly seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl," blessed her
buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear," in his most
affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright
wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in
spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest
on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time
about it; and, when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms
under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the
curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.
After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night,
and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by
Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good
many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my
private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her
mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation
in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone
together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its
purpose was explained to her.