Chapter 10
One November morning, a sharp ring rang, and a minute after Hannah came in.
“It’s one of them horrid telegraph things, mum,” she said, handling it as if she were afraid it would explode.
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 downstairs 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.”
Mrs. March was herself again directly; read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, “I shall go at once, but it may be too late; oh, children, chidren; 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.
They tried to be clam, 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.
“Here, ma’am; oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying from the next room, whither he had withdrawn.
“Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning.”
“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 for that.”
“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. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk; and, Meg, come and help me find my things for I’m half bewildered.”
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 their mother’s absence. 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 and expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for travelling. He saw the look, knitted his 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, whe came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke.
“I’m very sorry to hear of this, Miss March,” he said, in the kind, quiet voice which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. “I came to offer myself as escort to your mother.”
“How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I’m sure; and it will be such a relief to know that she had someone 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 cooking tea, and lead the way into the parlour.
Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March. Enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating 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, had 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.
The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, 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. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, which puzzled the family 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! I hope you haven’t done anything rash?”
“No, it’s mine honestly; I didn’t beg, borrow, or 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! Jo took beautiful hair!” “Oh, Jo, how could you? It was your one beauty.” “She doesn’t look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!”
As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush, “It doesn’t affect fate of the nation, so don’t wail, Beth. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off; and the barber said I could soon have a crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order.”
No one wanted to go to bed when, at ten o’clock, Mrs. March put the last finished job by, and said, “Come, girls.” Beth went to the piano and played her father’s favourite hymn; all began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart.
“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.
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.
