Part 1 — Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII.

DARK DAYS.

BETH did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one 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. Every one 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 tragical 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 don't know us, she don't even talk

about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine

leaves on the wall; she don'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 on to 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 lots,

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.

"Don't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking

indignant.

"Oh, yes; she tries to, but she don'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 a 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 to-night 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 to-night, 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. Laurie,

though decidedly amazed, behaved with great

presence of mind; he patted her back soothingly, and,

finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a

bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once.

Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently

away, saying, breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't

mean to; it was dreadful of me; but you were such a

dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah, that I couldn't

help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't

give me wine again; it makes me act so."

"I don't mind!" laughed Laurie, as he settled his

tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did grandpa.

We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority

business, and your mother ought to know. She'd

never forgive us if Beth,—well, if anything happened,

you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office

yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most

took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I

never can bear to be 'marmed over;' so that settled

my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I

know, and the late train is in at two, a. m. I shall go

for her; and you've only got to bottle up your rapture,

and keep Beth quiet, till that blessed lady gets here."

"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank

you?"

"Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie,

looking mischievous,—a thing he had not done for a

fortnight.

"No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your

grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest,

for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy;

bless you!"

Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her

speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen,

where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the

assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!"

while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather

a neat thing of it.

"That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I

forgive him, and do hope Mrs. March is coming on

right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when

Jo told the good news.

Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the

letter, while Jo set the sick-room in order, and

Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company

unexpected." A breath of fresh air seemed to blow

through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms; everything appeared to

feel the hopeful change; Beth's bird began to chirp

again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's

bush in the window; the fires seemed to burn with

unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met their

pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another,

whispering, encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear!

mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth; she

lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and

joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight,—the

once rosy face so changed and vacant,—the once busy

hands so weak and wasted,—the once smiling lips

quite dumb,—and the once pretty, well-kept hair

scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day

she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter,

"Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly

shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her,

watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and

mother; and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind

raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night

came at last; and every time the clock struck the

sisters, still sitting on either side the bed, looked at

each other with brightening eyes, for each hour

brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say

that some change for better or worse would probably

take place about midnight, at which time he would

return.

Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at

the bed's foot, and fell fast asleep; Mr. Laurence

marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would

rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's anxious

countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the

thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully

soft and clear.

The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came

to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful

sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours

like those.

"If God spares Beth I never will complain again,"

whispered Meg, earnestly.

"If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him

all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor.

"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg,

after a pause.

"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we

ever shall get through it," added her sister,

despondently.

Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot

themselves in watching 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!"