Part 1 — Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
A TELEGRAM.
NOVEMBER is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frost-bitten garden.
"That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo, pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
"If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November.
"I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family," said Meg, who was out of sorts. "We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a tread-mill."
"My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could fix things for you as I do for my heroines! you're pretty enough and good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly; then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn every one who has
slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady
Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance."
"People don't have fortunes left them in that style
nowadays; men have to work, and women to marry
for money. It's a dreadfully unjust world," said Meg,
bitterly.
"Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all;
just wait ten years, and see if we don't," said Amy,
who sat in a corner making "mud pies," as Hannah
called her little clay models of birds, fruit and faces.
"Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in
ink and dirt, though I'm grateful for your good
intentions."
Meg sighed, and turned to the frost-bitten garden
again; Jo groaned, and leaned both elbows on the
table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spatted away
energetically; and Beth, who sat at the other window,
said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to
happen right away; Marmee is coming down the street,
and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he
had something nice to tell."
In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual
question, "Any letter from father, girls?" and Laurie
to say, in his persuasive way, "Won't some of you
come for a drive? I've been pegging away at
mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to
freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but
the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke home,
so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo, you
and Beth will go, won't you?"
"Of course we will."
"Much obliged, but I'm busy;" and Meg whisked
out her work-basket, for she had agreed with her
mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive
often with the young gentleman.
"We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy,
running away to wash her hands.
"Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?"
asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair, with
the affectionate look and tone he always gave her.
"No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be
so kind, dear. It's our day for a letter, and the penny
postman hasn't been. Father is as regular as the sun,
but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."
A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after
Hannah came in with a letter.
"It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,"
she said, handing it as if she was afraid it would
explode, and do some damage.
At the word "telegraph," Mrs. March snatched it,
read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into
her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a
bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed down stairs for
water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo
read aloud, in a frightened voice,—
"Mrs. March:
"Your husband is very ill. Come at once.
"S. Hale,
"Blank Hospital, Washington."
How still the room was as they listened
breathlessly! how strangely the day darkened outside! and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as
the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if
all the happiness and support of their lives was about
to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself
again directly; read the message over, and stretched
out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they
never forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too
late; oh, children, children! help me to bear it!"
For several minutes there was nothing but the sound
of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words
of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful
whispers, that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was
the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she
set all the rest a good example; for, with her, work
was the panacea for most afflictions.
"The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no
time a cryin', but git your things ready right away,
mum," she said, heartily, as she wiped her face on her
apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand
with her own hard one, and went away to work, like
three women in one.
"She's right; there's no time for tears now. Be
calm, girls, and let me think."
They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother
sat up, looking pale, but steady, and put away her
grief to think and plan for them.
"Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she
had collected her thoughts, and decided on the first
duties to be done.
"Here, ma'am; oh, let me do something!" cried the
boy, hurrying from the next room, whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too
sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
"Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The
next train goes early in the morning; I'll take that."
"What else? The horses are ready; I can go
anywhere,—do anything," he said, looking ready to fly
to the ends of the earth.
"Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that
pen and paper."
Tearing off the blank side of one of her
newly-copied pages, Jo drew the table before her mother,
well knowing that money for the long, sad journey,
must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do
anything to add a little to the sum for her father.
"Now go, dear; but don't kill yourself driving at a
desperate pace; there is no need of that."
Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away;
for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window, on
his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.
"Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I
can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put
them down; they'll be needed, and I must go prepared
for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good.
Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles
of old wine; I'm not too proud to beg for father; he
shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah
to get down the black trunk; and Meg, come and help
me find my things, for I'm half bewildered."
Writing, thinking, and directing all at once, might
well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her
to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let
them work. Every one scattered, like leaves before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household was
broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an
evil spell.
Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth,
bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think
of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of
protection for the girls, during the mother's absence, which
comforted her very much. There was nothing he
didn't offer, from his own dressing-gown to himself as
escort. But that last was impossible. Mrs. March
would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the
long journey; yet an expression of relief was visible
when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for
travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows,
rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying
he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of
him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a
pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the
other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
"I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he
said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very
pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. "I came to offer
myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has
commissions for me in Washington, and it will give
me real satisfaction to be of service to her there."
Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very
near following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face
so full of gratitude, that Mr. Brooke would have felt
repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling
one of time and comfort, which he was about to make.
"How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm
sure; and it will be such a relief to know that she has some one to take care of her. Thank you very, very
much!"
Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till
something in the brown eyes looking down at her
made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way
into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.
Everything was arranged by the time Laurie
returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the
desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had
often said before, that she had always told them it
was absurd for March to go into the army, always
predicted that no good would come of it, and she
hoped they would take her advice next time. Mrs.
March put the note in the fire, the money in her
purse, and went on with her preparations, with her
lips folded tightly, in a way which Jo would have
understood if she had been there.
The short afternoon wore away; all the other
errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at
some necessary needle-work, while Beth and Amy got
tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she
called a "slap and a bang," but still Jo did not come.
They began to get anxious; and Laurie went off to
find her, for no one ever knew what freak Jo might
take into her head. He missed her, however, and she
came walking in with a very queer expression of
countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear,
satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family
as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her
mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice,
"That's my contribution towards making father
comfortable, and bringing him home!"
"My dear, where did you get it! Twenty-five
dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash?"
"No, it's mine honestly; I didn't beg, borrow, nor
steal it. I earned it; and I don't think you'll blame
me, for I only sold what was my own."
As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general
outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
"Your hair! Your beautiful hair!" "Oh, Jo, how
could you? Your one beauty." "My dear girl, there
was no need of this." "She don't look like my Jo
any more, but I love her dearly for it!"
As every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the
cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air,
which did not deceive any one a particle, and said,
rumpling up the brown bush, and trying to look as
if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation,
so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I
was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my
brains good to have that mop taken off; my head feels
deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could
soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish,
becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied; so
please take the money, and let's have supper."
"Tell me all about it, Jo; I am not quite satisfied,
but I can't blame you, for I know how willingly you
sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love.
But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid
you will regret it, one of these days," said Mrs. March.
"No I won't!" returned Jo, stoutly, feeling much
relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned.
"What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her
pretty hair.
"Well, I was wild to do something for father,"
replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy
young people can eat even in the midst of trouble.
"I hate to borrow as much as mother does, and I
knew Aunt March would croak; she always does, if
you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her quarterly
salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes
with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have
some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it."
"You needn't feel wicked, my child, you had no
winter things, and got the simplest, with your own
hard earnings," said Mrs. March, with a look that
warmed Jo's heart.
"I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first,
but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do,
and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich
stores and help myself. In a barber's window I saw
tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black
tail, longer, but not so thick as mine, was forty dollars.
It came over me all of a sudden that I had one thing
to make money out of, and, without stopping to think,
I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they
would give for mine."
"I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth, in a
tone of awe.
"Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely
lived to oil his hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he
wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and
ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care
about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place; the work put
into it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late,
and I was afraid, if it wasn't done right away, that I
shouldn't have it done at all, and you know, when I
start to do a thing, I hate to give it up; so I begged
him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry.
It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I
got rather excited, and told the story in my
topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly,"—
"'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd
do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire
of hair worth selling.'"
"Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to
have things explained as they went along.
"Her son, she said, who is in the army. How
friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they?
She talked away all the time the man clipped, and
diverted my mind nicely."
"Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut
came?" asked Meg, with a shiver.
"I took a last look at my hair while the man got
his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel
over trifles like that; I will confess, though, I felt queer
when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and
felt only the short, rough ends on my head. It almost
seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw
me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to
keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember
past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don't
think I shall ever have a mane again."
Mrs. March folded the wavy, chestnut lock, and laid
it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said "Thank you, deary," but something in her face
made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully
as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect
of a fine day to-morrow, and the happy times they
would have when father came home to be nursed.
No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock,
Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said,
"Come, girls." Beth went to the piano and played
the father's favorite hymn; all began bravely, but
broke down one by one till Beth was left alone,
singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a
sweet consoler.
"Go to bed, and don't talk, for we must be up early,
and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good-night,
my darlings," said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended,
for no one cared to try another.
They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently
as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and
Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but
Meg lay awake thinking the most serious thoughts she
had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless,
and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled
sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek,—
"Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about
father?"
"No, not now."
"What then?"
"My—my hair," burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to
smother her emotion in the pillow.
It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed
and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest
manner.
"I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again to-morrow, if I could. It's only the vain, selfish part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell any one, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?"
"I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg.
"Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
"I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."
"What did you think of?"
"Handsome faces; eyes particularly," answered Meg smilingly, to herself, in the dark.
"What color do you like best?"
"Brown—that is sometimes—blue are lovely."
Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air.
The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here, setting a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear heart! there is always light behind the clouds."