CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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 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 arsenicum 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 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.
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 little 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 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 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 if 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 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 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.
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once,
assuring 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,” aid
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
the 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 does
not 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 sweet 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 theater, truly?”
“A dozen theaters, if we may.”
“Well—I guess I will,” said Amy slowly.
“Good girl! Call 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 way.
“No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There
doesn’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 doesn’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 for 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 he 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, goodbye, goodbye!”
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 rattlepated boy
like…”
“Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!” cried Polly, tumbling off
the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the ‘rattlepated’ 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.
