“It seems as if half the house was gone,” added Meg forlornly.
Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother’s table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts; and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot.
“Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don’t fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let’s fall to work and be a credit to the family.”
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffeepot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.
“ ‘Hope and keep busy,’ that’s the motto for us, so let’s see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won’t she lecture though!” said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
“I shall go to my Kings, though I’d much rather stay at home and attend to things here,” said Meg, wishing she hadn’t made her eyes so red.
“No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well,” put in Amy, with an important air.
“Hannah will tell us what to do, and we’ll have everything nice when you come home,” added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay.
“I think anxiety is very interesting,” observed Amy, eating sugar pensively.
The girls couldn’t help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl.
The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again, and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother’s face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin.
“That’s so like my Beth!” said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. “Good-by, Meggy, I hope the Kings won’t traincv today. Don’t fret about Father, dear,” she added, as they parted.
“And I hope Aunt March won’t croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice,” returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister’s shoulders.
“That’s my only comfort.” And, touching her hat à la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
News from their father comforted the girls very much, for, though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more and more cheering as the week passed. At first, 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. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them:
MY DEAREST MOTHER,
It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn’t help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence’s business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn’t know that her ‘moral fit’ wouldn’t last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss ‘Margaret,’ which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy; but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own
MEG.
This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters:
MY PRECIOUS MARMEE,
Three cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us; but I could only cry, and say, “I’m glad! I’m glad!” Didn’t that do as well as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times; and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately good, it’s like living in a nest of turtledoves. You’d laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be mother ish. She gets prettier every day, and I’m in love with her sometimes. The children are regular arch-angels, and I—well, I’m Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn’t speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn’t come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn’t and got mad. It lasted all day, I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, it’s hard to beg pardon; but I thought he’d come to it, for I was in the right. He didn’t come; and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other’s pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
I made a “pome” yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash; and, as Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your
TOPSY-TURVY Jo.
A SONG FROM THE SUDS.
Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high;
And sturdily wash and rinse and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.
I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing-day!
Along the path of a useful life,
Will heartsease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow or care or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away,
As we bravely wield a broom.
I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,—
“Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel,
But, Hand, you shall work alway!”
DEAR MOTHER,
There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father’s tune. I can’t sing “Land of the Leal”cw now, it makes me cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy
wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn’t forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving
LITTLE BETH.
MA CHERE MAMMA,cx
We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls—Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can’t she? Didn’t I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtu ation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can’t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa.
Your affectionate daughter,
AMY CURTIS MARCH.
DEAR MIS MARCH,
I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things sur prisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to cal‘k’late fust, and you never know where she’s like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur; I don’t let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoescy as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent; but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March and hope he’s seen the last of his Pewmonia.
Yours Respectful,
HANNAH MULLET.
HEAD NURSE OF WARD No. 2,
All serene on the Rappahannockcz troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullett keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by
COLONEL TEDDY.
DEAR MADAM,
The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily; Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.
Your sincere friend and servant,
JAMES LAURENCE.
17
Little Faithful
For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really 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. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn’t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicumda and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches 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 a-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, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
“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 almost well.”
“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels‘,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
“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 writing.”
“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.
“Well, I’ll rest a little and wait for her.”
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 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-bottledb 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.”
“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. “Oh, 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,dc 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.
Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 23