Chapter 17
CHAPTER XVII.
LITTLE FAITHFUL.
FOR a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one 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 neglecting 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 to the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that house-work and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her kingdom, and sewed, or thought she did, 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 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 every one 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 most well."
"It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie,
but not well enough to go 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 to-morrow.
"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.
"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 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 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 lap 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, 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'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; 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?"
"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 this 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 don't
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 clever
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! Sing out for 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 don'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 don'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,—
"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're a fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.