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—
“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 rat tlepated boy like—”
“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the “rat tlepated” 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.
18
Dark Days
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 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. Everyone missed Beth. The milk-man, 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 tragic 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, 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 onto 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.
“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 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 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.