Beginning , Section II
Chapter 9
Posted on August 2, 2008
Two years later
Mrs. March was one of many who subscribed to the belief that similarity of character is a firm foundation for a sturdy friendship (and perhaps something more), and believed this played a substantial role in Jane and Charlie's budding relationship. They were both of a kind, generous nature, ever willing to see the best in any given situation or person; but they were not so alike as to make their interaction tediously smooth and harmonious. Jane was steadfast and quietly assertive; Charlie was impulsive and frank.
All in all, Mrs. March was fairly satisfied, believing that if in time Jane should begin to feel something for Charlie, theirs would be a happy, healthy relationship. Emma, too, was quite pleased to see the new light in Jane's eye when she spoke of Charlie. This success -- or perceived success -- added greatly to her confidence in her matchmaking abilities, and with aplomb she set out to make another such venture.
Elizabeth was surprised to see her sister lapse once again into a quiet, thoughtful mood, and regarded her with no small amount of suspicion, as Emma somehow always managed to direct a knowing smile in her direction at least twice daily. What she was about, or what she was thinking, Elizabeth had no idea; but she determined to be cautious -- exceedingly cautious.
It all came to light one day, when Elizabeth came home with Jane from her aunt's to see Emma standing at the door, her posture impatient.
Jane chuckled, for she was in Emma's confidence and knew to some extent what she was planning -- and though she did not exactly approve, she thought it to some degree quite amusing. She patted Elizabeth's hand sympathetically, and strode into the house.
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "Why are you home so early, Emma?"
"Uncle March allowed me to depart sooner than usual," said Emma casually. She closed the door behind her and walked down the steps. "Now come, Lizzy, we are to go visiting."
"We?" echoed Elizabeth, with a skeptical look, taking a step back reflexively at the gleam in her eye.
"Yes, you and I -- Jane shall stay at home and help Annie with dinner," said Emma, taking her hand dragging her sister to the gate.
"Emma," whined Elizabeth.
"It is only proper that we should go over to thank George for lending you the book you wanted for Christmas. See? I took it from your nightstand, and have it here, all ready to return to him," said Emma proudly, producing Undine and Sintram from underneath her cloak.
"But I didn't have a chance to finish it yet!" protested Elizabeth, giving a sigh of resignation. Wherever these notions came from, and however they always managed to end up in that head of her sister's, she would never know.
Emma shrugged. "Does it really matter?"
Elizabeth stared. "I beg your pardon? Matter? Oh, yes, of course," she said sarcastically. "Pray excuse my naïveté; certainly one only borrows a book for the express purpose of returning it later on, and nothing else."
"Exactly," said Emma with a sincere, complacent smile. Elizabeth looked at her oddly, wondering if she was aware of the absurdity of what she had just said.
As they neared the front step of the mansion, they were surprised to see a figure curled up against a tall tree, and Elizabeth impulsively walked over. Emma followed hesitantly.
They saw that the figure was a slight slip of a girl, her head gently bent over something she had cupped in her hand. As they approached, she looked up with a startled expression, dropping whatever she held into her pocket. She was about Elizabeth's age, perhaps younger.
"Good day," said Elizabeth jovially.
"Hello," was the girl's shy response.
"Are you the ‘darling niece' Florence is always mentioning?" asked Elizabeth with interest.
The girl coloured. "No." She glanced down at her dress, and did not think it so very poor as to be mistaken for a servant's attire.
"Now, don't question her so, Lizzy," said Emma tactfully. "Let us introduce ourselves first." She smiled at the girl. "I am Emma March, and this is my younger sister Elizabeth -- but we call her..." she paused, turning her smile to her sister. "Eliza."
"No, we do not," said Elizabeth, scowling. "I am Lizzy."
"It's very nice to meet you," said the girl bashfully. "My name is Georgiana Darcy."
Shocked, Elizabeth blinked a few times.
"I think I heard George mention you a few times," Emma commented, smirking at her sister's expression. "I wonder why we haven't met you before. You are Mr. Darcy's sister, are you not?"
"Yes," said Georgiana.
"Lord, I should not like to be saddled with such a name," said Elizabeth at last, completely forgetting her own rather hefty "Elizabeth Roberta". Emma rolled her eyes, that same name on the tip of her tongue, but at a warning glance from Elizabeth decided to hold it.
"Well, you may call me Georgie -- if you would like," said Georgiana tentatively.
"Of course, Georgie," smiled Emma.
"It's what Fitzwilliam calls me," Georgiana smiled back.
At this, Elizabeth chuckled, and Emma could not quite keep her lips from twitching a little, as they always did ever since Mr. Bingley let the name slip.
"It is a very respectable name," Georgiana said with some indignation, perceiving that her new friends did not quite appreciate its worth.
"I am sure it is," Emma said. She then gracefully took a seat beside her, and Elizabeth plopped down also, leaning casually against the tree.
"So, Georgie," she said. "How did you come to be here? I do wonder that we've never seen you here before."
"I don't usually come here to wait for him. But today Fitzwilliam is taking me to our cousin's, where I am to stay for the summer," replied Georgiana.
"Do you like it there?" inquired Emma.
Georgiana lowered her eyes. "Not particularly," she said.
"Then I don't see why you have to go!" said Elizabeth with vehemence.
"It is still better than staying at our little place -- it would be so lonely without Fitzwilliam. I'd hate to stay home alone so much of the time," confided Georgiana wistfully.
"Poor dear," said Emma, looking sympathetic. "If it isn't too far perhaps Lizzy and I could run over and keep you company sometime."
"Oh, could you?" cried Georgiana happily. "I would like it ever so much; I get so miserable sometimes by myself."
"Of course we could, and we will," said Elizabeth warmly.
"Do you think your brother would mind? From what I've heard, he can be rather overbeari-- I mean, protective," Emma said, sharing a look with Elizabeth.
"I'd say! Your brother is the worst one in the world, sending you off like that," said Elizabeth indignantly.
"Oh, no, you shouldn't say so!" cried Georgiana. "He couldn't help it! He's the best brother anyone could ever wish for!"
Elizabeth's face was indicative of her wonderment, but Emma giggled, and leaned in close to whisper conspiratorially to Georgiana, "Lizzy has never particularly liked him, but the dislike is mutual."
"But Fitzwilliam never dislikes anybody -- well, I suppose he does," said Georgiana contemplatively. "But he never lets anybody know that he dislikes somebody."
Elizabeth, still, was unconvinced.
"Never mind," chuckled Emma. "Lizzy and I must go in now, to return George's book here, you see. Would you like to come with us, Georgie?"
"Do you think Mr. Bingley would mind?"
"Of course not."
The girls stood and made their way to the house, treading the path already worn between the two houses, chatting gaily all the way. It seemed as if they had always been the best of comrades, rather than friends just newly made.
Emma was quiet all through the visit, responding minimally when spoken to, and listening attentively to the conversation between George and Elizabeth. Georgiana stood slightly apart, too shy to say anything, and looked on with diffident admiration.
"How do you get on, Georgie?" George asked, turning to her with a brotherly smile. "Darcy is nearly done for today, and should be with you soon, if Charlie does not persist in blundering through his Latin."
"Thank you, I am well, and I don't mind waiting," said Georgie, returning his smile shyly, and blushing a little.
"Oh, there he is, you needn't wait after all," cried Elizabeth, when she heard the library door click, and Charlie's voice float down the hall.
Both Mr. Darcy and Charlie entered then, and Georgiana immediately flew to her brother's side.
"Fitzwilliam," she said, taking his arm. Elizabeth was surprised to see Darcy's expression soften immediately, and his other hand reach out to pat Georgiana's smaller one.
"Good afternoon, Miss March, Miss Elizabeth," he said, nodding coolly, before turning to his sister. "Well, Georgie, are you ready to go to your cousin's?"
"A little, but I wish I needn't," she said softly. "And brother -- could Emma and Lizzy visit me, do you think? They were so nice to me today, and I like them very much." Georgiana smiled at her new friends, who returned the favour.
"Of course, if the ladies do not mind," said Darcy fondly. George and Charlie exchanged a bemused glance at his indulgent tone, while Elizabeth was downright taken aback. Georgiana excitedly gave them the address, smiling widely.
"We don't at all!" Elizabeth finally exclaimed in her own impulsive way. "Isn't that lovely, Georgie? Such larks we'll have! Your brother can be nice when he chooses I see," she said with an approving glance at that gentleman, whose lips twitched a bit.
"Very obliged, Miss Elizabeth," he said. Charlie laughed, and agreed heartily, while George shook his head in amusement.
"That is to say, we shan't mind in the least, and thank you for the invitation, Mr. Darcy and Georgie," said Emma more placidly.
"You are very welcome," said Darcy with a kind smile. He then excused himself and Georgiana, and the two took their leave of the company.
Elizabeth, perturbed, stared at their departing figures, wondering at the change in Mr. Darcy's manners -- or what she supposed Mr. Darcy's manners to be. The strict, arrogant tutor transformed too easily into the lenient, good-natured brother for her taste, and it expectedly caused some confusion within her.
"Hmm, well," said Emma, clearing her throat, and turning to George. "I recall, now that Lizzy's finished the book you so kindly lent" -- here Elizabeth rolled her eyes -- "I'm sure Lizzy would like to look through your collection again, for another one."
"You are very welcome to use the library whenever you choose," said George graciously, although he frowned blankly at her.
"Thank you, George," said Elizabeth with an imperceptible groan. "But we haven't time today, and should go home before dinner is served. Shan't we, Emma?"
"Oh, of course," said her sister, though she looked disappointed. Nevertheless she stood, and smiled at all of them. "Goodbye, George, Charlie."
"Goodbye."
And so Emma and Elizabeth both left the house with much to contemplate. For Elizabeth, initial judgments must be re-evaluated, and first impressions discarded for the proof of the present. Mr. Darcy, she decided, was a truly impenetrable character. She was inclined, unsurprisingly, to attribute it all to capriciousness and whimsy; but were there really multiple sides to the man? Was the seeming arrogance and hauteur nothing but reserve and introversion, which fell away at his genuine affection for his sister? Maybe it was the setting that governed his manners, and not himself. She could not fault him for something he could not help. It was all very perplexing, Elizabeth decided.
Emma's meditations, however, were of a more trivial nature. George and Lizzy, how perfect! If only they knew what was good for them....
"How disagreeable Thursdays are," murmured Anne, her face sullen as she stepped into the house. She handed to Hannah the basket of turnips she had bought on sale at the market.
"What's bothering you, sweetie?" said Hannah kindly as she set the basket on the table. Anne sighed, and moved over to sit on the easy chair where she had a clear view of the kitchen.
"I visited the Hummels today," she said slowly.
"Don't you always?" Hannah returned with a benevolent smile.
"Yes -- and I spoke to Fred," continued Anne.
"Don't you always?" Hannah repeated.
Anne's cheeks pinked slightly. She coughed. "Yes, well, that is beside the point." Pausing, she said, "We spoke today, yes, but there was something different about him; a sort of stiffness and wistfulness that made me uncomfortable to see. So I asked him, and...." Anne bit her lip and sighed again. "He's enlisting."
Hannah's hands, which had been busy kneading dough, froze.
"Well," she said at last. "He's always meant to, I s'pose." She was trying to make her voice sound light, but Anne knew that Hannah had always had an especial soft spot for the boy, who came over occasionally; something in honest, kind-hearted Freddie appealed to her, endeared him to her. Hannah spoiled the boy rather shamefully, plying him with home-cooked treats whenever he visited.
"You know your pa writes that the war can't last on too long now," Hannah said, kneading the dough vigorously. "Sure, we'll all miss him, I reckon -- especially his poor aunt, but if ‘tis what he really wants to do I ain't stopping him." She winked, and said, "Dusty tonight, ain't it?"
"Oh Hannah," said Anne, her own eyes filling a little. "Yes, it is."
Elizabeth's cheerful whistling as she bustled in with a more sedate Jane in tow was a welcome intrusion. The sombre mood lifted a little, as it always did when Lizzy came.
"Why the sad faces, Annie? Has Snuffles upset the milk again, Hannah?" she laughed, waltzing in. She peeked over Hannah's shoulder. Disappointed that it was only dough, her eyes roamed around and settled upon the cookie jar, which Hannah had filled that day at noon. Brightening, she reached towards it, only to have her hand slapped away by an uncharacteristically sharp Hannah.
"None of that, Miss Lizzy," she scolded.
Pouting, she made her way to sit on the rug beside Anne's chair.
"Don't be idle," said Jane brusquely to both of her younger sisters, donning an apron to help Hannah herself.
"Aren't we all short-tempered today!" cried Elizabeth, looking around her in wonderment. "What's wrong? Jane looks miserable all the way home from Rosefield, Anne looks teary when we do get home, and Hannah doesn't let me have a cookie. I do wonder at you all," she said sulkily.
Hannah softened at that. "Of course you may have a cookie, sweetheart. After dinner." Anne smiled a little, and stood up from her chair.
Elizabeth grumbled, to which Jane sharply told her to quit being lazy and help with the meal, adding, "You are fifteen now, Lizzy, and should stop acting so childish."
"And you are eighteen now, so you could order us all about?" said Elizabeth, her frown still in place.
Jane noted this, and nodded wisely, saying, "Now who's short-tempered?" Elizabeth's features relaxed, and she smiled. "I'm sorry. But you are melancholy today. What is the matter? Anne?"
Sighing again, Anne repeated all she said to Hannah, and saying again that Thursdays were very disagreeable, to which everyone but Elizabeth agreed readily.
"Oh, Annie," said Jane sympathetically. "You're such good friends."
Elizabeth hugged her, getting a bit of flour on her clothes. "Fred's a nice sort. We'll all miss him, but there are such things as letters."
"I suppose," said Anne, not looking particularly consoled. They worked on in silence.
"What about you, Jane?" Elizabeth said after a while. "You were so silent on the way home, and I do wonder what's so troubling."
Jane said, "At the Kings' today, the children -- dear me, how big they've grown -- but, as I was saying, the children were rather downcast today; and when I asked them why, they said that their nice brother John -- "
"Dear Lord, not another love interest?"
"Of course not," snapped Jane. "I'm not so flighty and sentimental as I was two years ago, you know. Do you want to hear or not?" Closing her mouth, Elizabeth beckoned for her sister to continue. "Well, as I was saying, they were a bit low today, because their parents had just told them that their brother John was going away soon, to university." She sighed, and let silence descend, thinking that Elizabeth now understood why she was so melancholy.
Apparently not.
"So?"
Jane shot her a withering look. "So, it occurred to me that he was the same age as Charlie, and Mr. Bingley had mentioned, in passing, that he was to send ‘the boy' away this year. He is old enough."
"Oh," said Elizabeth. "You will be sad to see him go?"
"It does seem as if everybody is leaving lately," said Jane, ignoring the rather obtuse question.
"He might not go after all," said Anne, offering hope. "Mr. Bingley never mentioned it to me."
"Well, he is a good friend," Elizabeth noted. "We all had such larks. But then he'll have all manner of delightful things at university. Oh, don't I wish I could go!" She gave a wistful sigh, of a rather different nature than Jane's.
The front door swung open then, admitting a smiling Emma. "Good evening, girls," she said brightly, then sniffing the air. "Cookies, Hannah? It smells delicious."
"Thank ye, dearie," said Hannah. "But like I said to Miss Lizzy here, none until you finish dinner."
Emma laughed. "No, indeed!" She went to sit on a sofa, and regarded her sisters working away in silence, until she said, "So how was everyone's day?"
"Gloomy," declared Elizabeth for all of them, although she didn't particularly look gloomy herself.
"Fred's enlisting," Anne said sadly. Emma pondered this, and said finally, "I feel bad for your loss, Annie, but you know he's been wanting to for a long time."
"Yes," she sighed.
"Poor dear," murmured Emma sympathetically. "Marmee'll be home soon, and perhaps she has a letter from Father," she said after a short silence. She brightened, and bustled up to add a few touches for Mother's welcome home. When the clock struck five, the girls and Hannah were all ready, and set about waiting for dear Mother.
She was rather late that night, when she finally came in half-an-hour later, but that thought hardly occurred to anyone when they saw her pale, drawn face.
"Oh, Marmee, what's the matter?" said Emma anxiously, taking her hat
Jane noticed that something was in her hand. "What's that?"
Mrs. March handed Jane the slip of paper she had been clutching, and drew a shuddering breath.
"Girls -- Hannah -- a telegram has arrived today, and I -- I must go. At once.
Chapter 10
Posted on August 11, 2008
"Mrs. March: your husband is very ill, come at once," Jane read aloud with a trembling voice. "S. Hale, Blank Hospital, Washington."
How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, and how strangely the day darkened outside with each successive word! 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. Their troubles before now seemed so petty and trivial in comparison to this, as was only natural.
How disagreeable Thursdays were!
For several minutes a heavy silence descended upon the room, disturbed only by broken words of comfort, tender assurances, and hopeful whispers that died away in quiet 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 panacea for most afflictions.
Soon Mrs. March was herself again and read the message over, saying, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Come, girls, be calm while I think."
She had not thought two minutes before they heard the front door open, and the sound of Charlie's footsteps. A note of light laughter trailed in and met their ears; a sound that now seemed foreign, as any type of cheer must.
"Good evening!" said Charlie as he came into the room, his usual happy smile on his face, which froze at the sight that met him.
Mrs. March looked relieved. "Oh, Charlie, you came just when I needed you," she said gratefully.
When he saw their pale faces, he knew something was not right; smiles were forced, eyes dull, and postures defeated. "What happened?" he asked with some alarm.
Jane handed the telegram to him silently. As he read it, his own face drained of colour, and when he was done said beseechingly, "Please let me help. I can go anywhere, do anything! Just tell me how I can help." Charlie looked ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
"Send a telegram saying I will come at once -- and please ask someone -- George, perhaps -- to leave a note at my sister's -- Rosefield, Lady Catherine's. Lizzy, give me that pen and paper."
Elizabeth complied, tearing off the nearest that she could find, and giving it to her mother. She well knew that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and felt 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."
Mrs March's warning was evidently lost on him, for five minutes later Charlie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, George close behind, riding as if for their lives.
"Emma, please run and fetch me these things. I'll put them down, they'll be needed; and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Annie, go and ask Mr. Bingley for a couple bottles of old wine; I'm not too proud to beg for Father, and he shall have the best. Lizzy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk; and, Jane, 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. Jane begged her to sit quietly in her room for a while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind; it seemed as if the paper had broken up the happy, quiet household as effectually as if it had been the wind itself.
Mr. Bingley came hurrying back with Anne, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and the friendliest promises of protection for the girls during their 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 the 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 ‘til, as Elizabeth 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. Darcy.
"I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss Elizabeth," he said gravely. "I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Bingley has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there."
Elizabeth was much too incredulous to even blink, much less speak coherently. Down dropped the rubbers, and the cup of tea was precariously close to following, had not impulse overridden shock.
Extending the hand responsible for the fall of the poor rubbers, she exclaimed, "Mr. Darcy!", rather belatedly and unnecessarily -- but into those few syllables she poured in such gratitude, relief, and pleasant surprise, that she could not have spoken more eloquently had she delivered a rehearsed speech.
Mr. Darcy smiled in understanding.
"Thank you," she said earnestly.
"I am very glad to provide what little help I could; and could you perhaps keep an eye on my sister while I am gone?" he asked.
"Gladly! Mr. Darcy... for what it's worth, I'm very thankful -- and -- and sorry too," Elizabeth said sheepishly.
"Sorry?" Mr. Darcy frowned.
"Well -- you know -- for throwing that book at you. I'm not usually so -- ill-mannered," said Elizabeth, a little shamefaced. "However," she said blithely. "Mother will be so relieved to have someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!"
Something in the tone of his reply and the warm gaze levelled at her then prompted her to stoop and gather the rubbers back in her arm. With her face flushed in confusion and something else, she led the way to the parlour, saying she would call her mother.
Everything was arranged by the time George and Charlie returned with a note from Lady Catherine 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 that she hoped that they would take her advice next time.
"... March was foolish to run off, when he would have been much better off at home taking care of his family; she had always said so."
Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations; but her lips were folded tightly in a way that made Elizabeth gaze contemptuously at the burning embers.
"Marmee," she said. "Could you spare me awhile? I need to run about a little, to clear my head. It isn't very/ was only about to set, tingeing the sky with the barest hint of pink.
"Yes." Elizabeth spoke resolutely.
Mrs. March nodded her consent, and Elizabeth hurried out the door, putting on a bonnet hastily so that it rested askew on her head.
When an hour passed, they began to get anxious; not only for Lizzy, but also Emma, who had not yet returned either. But soon after George and Charlie left for their own dinner, the two came walking in.
Elizabeth had a very queer look on her face, half-regret and half-satisfaction. Emma took her younger sister by the hand, and before her mother laid out a roll of bills which puzzled the family as much as did their expressions. "That's Lizzy's contribution towards making Father comfortable and bringing him home!" said Emma with warmth and pride, squeezing her sister's hand.
"My dears, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! I hope you haven't done anything rash?"
"No, it was honestly got," said Elizabeth slowly. As she spoke, she took off her bonnet; and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
Everyone exclaimed, Anne hugged the cropped head tenderly, and Elizabeth assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle. Emma explained that on her way home Lizzy had hurried past her with a preoccupied air, clutching her bonnet to her head firmly.
"She told me what she'd done, and I can't say how proud I am of her," she ended with a hug. "You don't look like my Lizzy anymore, but I love you all the more for it." Elizabeth's face relaxed, for she had been rather afraid that her act would be condemned.
"What made you do it?" Jane wanted to know. Unconsciously, her hand went up to finger a golden strand protectively.
"I was wild to do something for Father," confided Elizabeth to all of them as they gathered around the table. "I hate to borrow so much from Lady Catherine, and you know how she croaks for weeks afterwards if you so much as ask for a ninepence." She made a disgusted face. "And I can't say I'm sorry I did it. My head feels so deliciously light now, and the barber said I'd soon have a nice comfortable curly crop."
"Oh, sweetheart, it wasn't necessary, and I'm afraid you'll regret it someday," said Mrs. March anxiously.
"Don't worry now, Mother, you know I won't," Elizabeth said stoutly.
"I don't see how you could have dared to do it," said Anne with awe.
"Well, I was eager to give anything to helping father, only didn't know how," Elizabeth said. "But then I thought of Great Aunt March's wigs, and how she is always complaining of how expensive they are. It occurred to me all of a sudden that I could do something; and the rest you already know."
"Didn't you feel rather queer when the first cut came?" asked Jane 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 did feel queer, however, when I saw the dear old hair laid on the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my head. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by," said Elizabeth with a fond smile.
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. They talked as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Darcy's kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, 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 unfinished job. Anne went to the piano, and played Father's favourite hymn. Jane's voice trailed off at "When we asunder part"; Emma sang with a quavering voice; and Elizabeth could only hum along, muting the lyrics -- they all broke down one by one, ‘til Anne was left to sing alone; but she sang with all her heart, for music to her was balm at such a time.
"Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get," said Mrs. March at the hymn's end, 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. Elizabeth soon lay motionless, and Anne fancied that she was asleep, ‘til a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek, "Lizzy, dear, what is it? Are you crying about Father?"
A hiccup and a murmur was her only reply. Anne thought she heard the words, "not entirely", but couldn't be sure.
"What is it, Lizzy?" Anne prodded gently.
"My -- my hair," faltered Elizabeth with another hiccup. At her sister's expression, she hurriedly said, dashing away her tears, "I'm not sorry I did it -- you mustn't think so! Only -- the vain part of me rather mourns the loss, and -- oh, Annie, what will he -- they think?"
"Oh, Lizzy, no one could think less of you for doing such a brave, selfless thing for Father," Anne said tenderly. "I'm sure Jane or Emma could make it curl for you sometime, and it would look so pretty."
"Thank you, Annie," Elizabeth sniffled.
Anne was reassured, and was soon sleeping peacefully; but Elizabeth lay awake for some time still, until she was truly and fully exhausted with worries, laments, and the persistent, irrational question, "What will he -- they think?" As the clocks were striking midnight, her eyelids fluttered shut.
The rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here and settling a pillow there. Pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, she kissed each with lips that mutely blessed, and prayed 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 soul! There is always light behind the clouds.
Chapter 11
Posted on August 17, 2008
In the cold, gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter of Pilgrim's Progress with an earnestness never felt before; for now the shadow of real trouble had come, and the little books were full of help and comfort. As they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey without distressing her with tears or complaints.
Everything seemed very strange when they went down -- so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about in her kitchen with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution.
Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, the girls busied themselves over small things to keep from thinking of their mother's impending departure. As Jane folded her shawl and Emma smoothed out the strings of her bonnet, Mrs. March said,
"Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Bingley's protection. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve or fret when I am gone, and think that you can comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless."
"Yes, Mother."
"Jane, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr. Bingley. Write to me often, Emma, and be ready to help and cheer us all. Lizzy, obey and help all you can, be my brave girl, and don't do anything rashly; Annie, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to your little home duties."
"We will, Mother! We will!"
The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well: no one cried, and no one ran away or uttered a lamentation. Their hearts were very heavy, however, as they sent loving messages to Father -- remembering as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them.
Mr. Bingley and his grandsons came over to see her off, and Mr. Darcy helped her kindly into the carriage. As he turned, his gaze fell on Elizabeth, who looked rather queer, gripping her bonnet very tightly to her head. Studying her quizzically, he gave an inquiring glance, then smiled at all the girls and assured them that every consideration will be paid to their parents.
Jane thanked him quietly, and watched as he himself stepped in. As the carriage rolled away, they all waved and tried to look cheerful; but as the last flutter of their mother's handkerchief disappeared from view, their smiles fell away.
"I feel if there had been an earthquake," said Elizabeth, as their neighbours went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
"It seems as if half the house is gone," added Jane forlornly.
Anne opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts; and, in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.
Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot.
"Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work, and be a credit to the family."
Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffeepot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.
"'Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to the shop as usual. Are you going to the Kings' today, Jane? What about you, Lizzy?" said Emma, as she sipped with returning spirit.
"I shall, but I'd much rather stay home and attend to things here," Jane said, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
"I don't think I'd like to go to Rosefield today," said Elizabeth hesitantly, feeling her cropped head. She felt sure her aunt would censure her act.
"No, I don't suppose Lady Catherine would like for you to go either," said Jane thoughtfully. "She sounded very upset yesterday."
"Poor Lady Catherine!" said Anne. It was the first thing she had said since their mother had left.
"Poor Lady Catherine?" echoed Emma.
"Oh, Annie," Elizabeth said, but she couldn't repress a smile.
"She is Mother's sister," defended Anne.
"Half-sister."
"Even so, as such she must be grieved for her brother-in-law," said Jane softly. "So we mustn't blame her for her unkind words yesterday, you must think how worried she must be for Father."
Emma laughed and said, "'Til I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can think of her in such a light."
"Yes, angels, the both of you! Trust you to make Lady Catherine seem like anything less than an ogress," added Elizabeth.
The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it. Jane and Emma soon stood up to leave, taking their turnovers from Hannah. Anne ran to the window as they left, and curious, Elizabeth followed.
"You remember how Marmee always sends them off from here," said Anne, nodding at their sisters as Elizabeth joined her.
"How thoughtful you are to remember that," Elizabeth said with a hug, as they waved to the two figures going down the lane to their daily tasks. They had turned, and looked gratefully back at them.
"I think I shall visit Georgiana today, unless I am needed at home," said Elizabeth, after Jane and Emma had disappeared from view.
"I don't think you would be," replied Anne.
So after her share of the chores had been done, and lunch eaten, Elizabeth set out with her bonnet securely in place and Georgie's address in hand.
"Hello," said Elizabeth with a friendly smile as a thin, pale woman opened the door.
"And who might you be?" she asked, fixing her with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze.
"I'm a friend of Georgie's," Elizabeth told her. "Are you her cousin?"
The woman nodded stiffly. "My husband is -- "
"Lizzy!" cried Georgie, miraculously appearing beside her rigid cousin. "I'm so glad you came!"
"Georgiana," began the woman.
"Oh! Lizzy, this is my cousin, erm, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and this is my friend Lizzy March," said Georgie hastily. "May I bring her to my room, ma'am?"
"Have you -- "
"Yes, yes, every one of them," said Georgiana eagerly.
"You may," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth was amazed to see her features soften into a rather handsome face. Flashing her a smile, Elizabeth let herself be led into the house and up the stairs by an enthusiastic Georgiana.
The room was small, but everything about it was comfortable. At Georgiana's insistence, she sat on the most lavishly cushioned chair in the room. She saw that several pictures hung on the wall, and a small but tasteful collection of books were propped on a suspended shelf. Sunlight poured cheerfully through the quaint window beside her, lighting up the room pleasantly.
"I was sorry to hear about your father," said Georgiana, suddenly shy as she sat on the rug in front of her.
"Thank you, Georgie. Your brother was very kind about it too; I'm terribly sorry that this sad business brought him away from you," Elizabeth replied gravely.
"I'm sure he is very happy to help, and I shan't complain," Georgie reassured her.
They sat in silence for a while, but it was not an uncomfortable one. After a while, Georgiana spoke up again.
"That is a very pretty bonnet, Lizzy, but you forgot to take it off -- would you like me to put it aside for you?"
"Oh!" Elizabeth coloured. "Um...." She sighed, and loosened the strings before taking it off herself. Georgie's eyes widened.
As her friend related her tale, admiration replaced shock in the young girl's eyes, and she stated frankly, "What a lovely thing to do! And you don't look any less pretty at all, Lizzy, at least I don't think so."
"Thank you, Georgie," said Elizabeth softly.
"That is a very pretty pin, however," commented Georgie, as a pleased blush stole up into her cheeks.
Elizabeth followed her gaze, and fingered the broach clasped to her collar, a gift from Lady Catherine. At first she had rebelled against the ornate pendant, with its large golden stone and floral setting; but her aunt's words as she gave it to her had turned her in favour of the present.
"Elizabeth," Lady Catherine had said solemnly. ""My gift to you -- although heaven knows I do not really need to, with all I have already given you -- is this broach. It is not merely a valuable ornament, but a family jewel, and I hope you will treasure it in your turn. Happy birthday, dear."
Elizabeth had not really cared for the speech, but the single ‘dear' at its end had been spoken with such softness and affection that the memory of it made her ashamed of all the ungenerous words she had spoken against the lady. Elizabeth resolved to do right by her aunt then and there, and though the resolution was somewhat guided by her characteristic impulse, there was also that of fondness in it.
"Lizzy?" Georgiana's timid voice broke through her preoccupation. Georgie wondered if she had somehow given offense, to make her friend so silent.
"Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry! I was only -- thinking," said Elizabeth. She glanced down at her broach. "Yes, it is a handsome thing, but rather large. My aunt -- Lady Catherine -- gave it to me on my birthday."
"Lady Catherine?" Georgie said with an inquiring eye.
"Oh yes, she would keep that title," Elizabeth laughed. "You see her mother was my mother's mother -- dear me, how confusing that does sound, to be sure! -- and Grandmother was an English lady who married some earl or another in England. My mother was born after she came to America with my aunt -- this was all after Grandfather died and Grandmother married a second time; so her father is not our aunt's." She glanced at Georgie. "Lady Catherine is ‘Lady' Catherine, and never would suffer to be called anything else."
"How puzzle -- er -- interesting that is!" said Georgie, and they both laughed.
The afternoon flew by as the two girls talked indiscriminately of a variety of subjects, and by the time Elizabeth stood up to leave she felt as if she had known Georgie all her life.
With a hug, the two girls parted at the door, and Elizabeth promised to visit again soon.
It was nearly dinnertime, but Elizabeth stuck fast to her decision and directed her steps in the direction of Rosefield. She did not know what she would say when she arrived; she only felt instinctively that it was something she had to do.
When she was shown into the parlour, Lady Catherine was there to greet her. Her icy expression rather made Elizabeth question the wisdom of coming.
"How do you explain your absence today, Eliza?" asked her aunt coldly. "Do you have any idea of the needless anxiety you have caused me? I am most seriously displeased. And what in heaven's name happened to your hair? Can you never rid yourself of your queer unladylike ways? What induced you to abandon your studies for a day of play?"
Elizabeth could have listened to this tirade with perfect composure, had it not been for that last sentence -- nobody takes well to being unjustly accused, and Lizzy was no exception. She flushed with anger, shot her aunt a resentful glare, turned, and marched furiously to the door.
"Elizabeth! Young lady, come back here at once," commanded Lady Catherine, rapping her cane against the floor for emphasis. "Why do you persist in being so contrary? Do you know how much I have worried?"
"I don't see how you even care!"
"I -- not care?" her aunt cried.
"I should say not!" said Elizabeth heatedly. "To deliver such a spiteful letter when Mother was worried sick for Papa! You never can sympathise, can you? I don't believe you've got any heart!"
Silence. Lady Catherine sat down on a chair, and her expression crumpled, so that she seemed ten years older all of a sudden. "I wish I haven't," she finally said, her voice quivering slightly.
"Oh!" said her niece, much troubled, for she had never seen this side of her imperious aunt before. "Please, I didn't mean it! You did help, by sending the money, and I shouldn't be so horrid when you've helped so much more than I ever can," and Elizabeth felt the shorn ends of her hair with a mournful aspect.
"What is all my wealth to me, if my nearest relations do not care what becomes of me? I only ever wanted to assist your family," said Lady Catherine sadly.
Elizabeth went to sit beside her pensively, and said in a quiet tone, "I don't want to be nasty and say it's your own fault -- but there is some truth in that! You shut us out, even just now when you said your family. If you'd only consider us your own, if you'd only let us in, despite our being so very poor and a discredit to you...." she trailed off.
When Lady Catherine did not respond, Elizabeth sighed and stood up. At the door she stopped, and said sadly, "Goodbye, Lady Catherine."
She turned, and was about to leave, when her aunt's voice arrested her.
"Elizabeth, please -- please call me -- Aunt Catherine, if you will." There was a note of wistfulness, and peculiar emotion in her tone.
With a bright smile, and holding back a few happy tears, Elizabeth launched herself into the arms of the aunt who was willing to acknowledge her and hers at last
Chapter 12
Posted on September20, 2008
News from their father comforted the girls very much. For though dangerously ill, the presence of the greatest and most tender of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Darcy sent a bulletin everyday; and as ‘head of the family' (a title Jane graciously allowed her a share of) Elizabeth insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed.
At first, everyone was eager to write: plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence.
Dear Mother,It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it, so glad we were that Father -- dear Father! -- is not in any serious danger.
The girls are all as good as gold. Emma is a great comfort; I don't know how I'd get on without her. Lizzy minds me nicely and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs (I should be worried she might overdo it if I didn't know that her ‘moral fit' wouldn't last long), and Annie is as regular about her tasks as clockwork -- never giving trouble -- but that could hardly surprise anyone.
All our neighbours are very kind; Charlie runs over often, and lifts the mood effectually when he does -- I fear that without him we would be altogether a very gloomy set. Mr. Bingley is very kind, though I wish he would be as kind to Charlie as he is to us -- but I am very thankful. George is very gentleman-like and solicitous, needless to say -- and very, very patient with Emma's hints and scheming. More patient than I would be, I think.
That is all I can think of right now, and shan't go on, as I shouldn't like to hog all the letter space for myself. Please send my thanks to Mr. Darcy, and love to yourself and Father from your own
Jane
This note, neatly written on scented paper, was ensured to give the reader much comfort in perceiving its complacent consistency -- in that respect it was a contrast to the next, for a whole spectrum of emotions was evident in the paragraphs, and the letter could not but be slightly bewildering.
My Dearest Mother,With what joy we received your last letter! We are all so, so thankful that Father is as near ‘well' as he can be; and as for us, we are better than we deserve to be, I know. I don't see how we can be any less, however, since everyone is so kind. -- Too kind, sometimes; Charles brings over so many gifts as to nearly turn the house upside down. I don't see how Jane has use for five ribbons (all pink), how Lizzy can read half-a-dozen books a day, how Annie can find room for all the music he gives her, or how even I can need so many pencils and paints -- but I digress.
Mr. Bingley is as dear and thoughtful as ever, and looks over us all with much benevolence. As to George, I declare he is most aggravating -- he would not admit that it was he who sent Lizzy's books for anything; but I know it couldn't have been Charlie -- the selection fairly screams of George's taste. I tell Lizzy so, but she is ever so annoyingly indifferent. I assure you it is quite maddening.
Oh Marmee! I meant to write such a comforting letter, but I fear it's all over the place -- so I will now close with a tender farewell, my dear Marmee, and send a loving kiss to Father. Please believe me when I say I do seek to work and hope; it is hard sometimes, but know that your Emma will try all the harder for it.
Yours,
Emma March
A cherished sketch of a garden, resembling their own, but with exaggerated colour and grandeur, was folded into Emma's stationery. The next message was from Lizzy, with a typically dishevelled appearance.
Marmee,Three cheers for dear Father! How kind of Mr. Darcy to telegraph the minute Father was better! I hurried up to my room the minute it came -- I tried to thank God for being so good to us, but could only cry, and say, "I'm glad! I'm glad!" Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? -- For I felt a great many in my heart.
Please assure Mr. Darcy that Georgiana is very happy and well, and I visit her every other day, if only for a brief chat. She is a darling.
We have such nice, cheerful times at home; and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves. You'd laugh to see Jane head the table and try to mother us. She gets prettier every day, and Charlie more moony-looking, as a consequence. Emma is a regular trump, simply lovely -- so sweet-tempered, even when I try her nerves, as I know I do. It's one of the things I can't escape. Annie is an angel, as always -- there's no other word for it, really. So kind and loyal to all her duties, she would make me quite ashamed of my own feats if I weren't so big-headed to think them greater than they are. As for me -- well, I'm Lizzy, and never shall be anything else.
Everyone is, of course, very kind. Even Aunt Catherine -- yes! Aunt Catherine -- is going through a very gentle, tender phase. That is to say, as gentle and tender as her nature would permit, but comparatively speaking she is downright soppy.
We're all so happy, and can't wait ‘til you and Father come home. Give him my ‘lovingest' hug, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your
Lizzy
The last, though shortest, was the most touching, for a few tears -- not all of them sprung from the same emotion -- blurred the words where they fell.
Dear Mother,There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. We are all as happy as we could be without you, thanks to everyone's kindness. I read my book and do my duties every day. I get a little lonely sometimes, as I'm often the only one in the house save Hannah, though she is a dear, but there are always your nice long letters to comfort me. I'm so glad that Father is better!
Fred sends his regards, and goodbyes, as he is leaving next day. We will all be sad to see him go; he was such a dear friend -- and poor Hannah is so fond of him. But I shan't be dreary, and ruin the happy tone, and will only end with a kiss to Father and you. Oh, do come home soon to your little
Annie
The steady refrain in these missives, ‘everyone is very kind', though a conservative phrase, came straight from their hearts; it was made all the more heartfelt by the truth of it.
Elizabeth caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home ‘til she was better, for Lady Catherine didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. This suited Lizzy, for she'd never really liked Miss Jenkinson -- and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books.
Emma found that housework and art did not go well together, and went back to her attic haven, where her pile of paintings and sketches grew exponentially. Jane 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, and quiet evenings at Netherfield. Anne 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 grew heavy with longings for Mother and Father, and one dear friend, she went away into a certain closet, to hide her face and pray quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful little Annie was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort and 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.
"Emma, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not to forget them," said Anne, as her sister came down from the attic for a misplaced sketch. It was ten days after Mrs. March's departure.
"I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Emma.
"Can't you, Lizzy?"
"Too stormy for me with my cold."
"I thought it was almost well."
"It's well enough for me to go on my rambles, but not well enough to see to the Hummels," laughed Elizabeth, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
"Why don't you go yourself?" asked Emma.
"I have been, every day. But the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it -- it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Jane or Hannah ought to go."
Anne spoke earnestly, and Emma promised she would go tomorrow.
"Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Annie; the air will do you good," said Elizabeth, adding apologetically, "I'd go, but I want to finish my book."
"My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe one of you would," said Anne.
"Jane will be in presently," suggested Emma.
So Anne lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten.
An hour passed. Jane did not come, Emma went back to her haven, Elizabeth was absorbed in her book, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Anne quietly put on her hood and filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children. She went out into the chilly air with a heavy heart 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 later, Elizabeth went to ‘Mother's closet' for something, and there found little Annie sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave. Her eyes were read and she held a camphor bottle in her hand.
"Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Elizabeth.
"Oh, Lizzy, the baby's dead!"
"What baby?"
"Mrs. Hummel's. It died in my lap before she got home," said Anne with a sob. "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.
I just sat and held it softly ‘til Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, that it was scarlet fever, and that Mrs. Hummel ought to have called him before. It was very sad, and I cried with them ‘til 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! I should never forgive myself if you did!" Elizabeth made to take her sister in her arms, but Anne put out her hand as if to warn her off. "Oh! I should have asked! Lizzy, you haven't had the scarlet fever before, have you?"
"I don't -- " she started.
"Then don't, don't come near! Please go."
Elizabeth could only comply, and hurried down for Hannah.
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring that there was no need to worry; everyone had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died. Elizabeth believed all this, and it was with much relief that she went up to call Jane and Emma.
At Hannah's bidding, Anne laid down on the bed she had hitherto shared with Lizzy, with tranquil thoughts, for Hannah's reassurances had been sufficient to put her troubled mind to rest.
Three anxious sisters awaited Hannah when she came down, and she directly took charge by saying, "My dears, do not fret -- we will have Dr. Perry, and I'm sure he will join me in saying that there is no cause to worry much." She added the last word as an afterthought, which made the girls slightly uneasy.
"Emma will stay home and nurse," Hannah held up a hand to silence the protestations that immediately burst forth. "I would have said Jane -- she is an ideal nurse -- but she must not neglect her pupils. Your Uncle March would understand, which may be more than can be said for the Kings. As for you, Miss Lizzy," she turned to her sternly. "You will go to Rosefield."
"But it's my fault she's sick!" cried Elizabeth, rebelling outright. "I told Mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't."
"Do you think it would help, then, to have you ill as well with the fever, so we have two people to nurse?" snapped Emma, who was in a sour mood, for she was very angry at herself.
"Oh, Lizzy," said Jane gently. "You must see that there's no other way. You would only be in the way here, and you go to Aunt's every day in any case. We'll send for you the minute Annie is better."
There was a silence as they all waited with bated breath; finally, Elizabeth said in a small voice, "Promise?"
With visible relief, Hannah said, "Absolutely."
Jane added fervently, "I'll visit you and bring news of Annie every day after work, and I'm sure Georgiana would love to keep you company too -- as well as George and Charlie, if we asked them."
This consoled Elizabeth, though it still seemed paltry compensation; and following Dr. Perry's examination of Anne, when he gravely confirmed that she had contracted the fever, Elizabeth left for Rosefield with a heavy heart full of remorse and distress for dear Annie
Chapter 13
Posted on October 10, 2008
Anne did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and Dr. Perry suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness and Mr. Bingley was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own way -- the busy doctor did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse.
Jane stayed home and kept house, lest she should infect the Kings; she had offered to take Emma's station as nurse, but Emma would not hear of it. Jane felt very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Anne'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 being told, and worried just for such a trifle.'
Emma devoted herself to Anne day and night -- not a hard task, for Anne was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself.
But there came a time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by the wrong names, and called imploringly for Mother; 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 piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left.
Then Emma grew frightened, Jane 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 Jane, 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 Emma, living in that darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, reflected on how happy home had once been, and how cheerless it was now, in the absence of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty.
And Elizabeth, 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 regret and grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. With the tender remembrances of that gentle little sister always tugging at her heart, she learned to see the beauty and sweetness of Anne's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Anne's unselfish ambition to live for others.
Charlie haunted the house like a restless ghost, George waited anxiously next door for his hourly reports, and Mr. Bingley locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbour who used to make the twilight pleasant for him.
Everyone missed Anne. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did; poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness; the neighbours sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes; and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Annie had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Betsy at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protégé. She longed for Snuffles, but would not have him brought, lest he should get sick -- and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Elizabeth, who cried over her sister's loving messages at Rosefield.
Anne 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 or Fred might not think they had been neglected. 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. Perry came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Jane kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Emma never stirred from Anne's side.
There came a day -- a drab, colourless morning -- when Dr. Perry came and looked long at Anne, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband she'd better be sent for."
Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Jane dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words; and Emma stood with a pale face -- for she, with her natural cheerfulness, and as primary attendant, had hoped the most -- but hope seemed to desert her abruptly at the words.
She was downstairs taking up the telegram numbly and contemplatively, when George came in with a letter. He stopped on perceiving Emma's ashen face, and asked quickly, "What is it? Is she worse?"
"Dr. Perry bade us send for Mother," she replied quietly.
"It's not so bad as that?" started George, searching her face.
"Yes, it is. She doesn't know us -- she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She isn't herself, and there's nobody to help us bear it. Mother and Father are both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find Him."
As the tears streamed fast down Emma's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark. George took it in his, whispering, "I'm here. Hold on to me, dear!"
She could not speak, but she did ‘hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly hand comforted her, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.
George felt that he ought to say something tender and comfortable, but no words seemed fitting; so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Emma 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 gratefully. "Thank you, George. I feel better now."
George smiled reassuringly at her -- then, remembering why he had come in the first place, presented the letter. Emma read it, and relief soon flooded her face, for it said that Mr. March had improved, which was welcome news at such a time.
"Father is better -- and Mother can leave more easily now," Emma breathed. Then, suddenly, she surprised George by throwing her arms around his neck, and crying out joyfully, "Oh, George! Oh, Mother! I'm so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed, trembled, and clung to her friend, enraptured by these glad tidings in such a difficult time.
"Here, I'll telegraph Mrs. March," said George after a while, holding out his hand and looking slightly uncomfortable, though not displeased.
"There's no need," said a new voice -- and both turned to see none other than Elizabeth standing in the doorway, her cheeks flushed.
"Lizzy! What do you think you're doing?" Emma cried angrily, her relief forgotten, when she had overcome her shock. "Do you want to contract the fever so badly that you refuse to stay out of danger?"
Elizabeth had the sense to look a little shamefaced at that, and was silent. Then she spoke up, with a trembling voice, "I don't, but you have no idea what it's like, eaten up with worry all day, with Aunt Catherine blaming, ranting, and prophesising by turns. And when I heard nothing from you for so long, you don't know how tortured I was! Then Charlie came and told me Annie was so much worse, and I -- I -- " she paused, looking a little anxious.
Emma spoke more sharply than she meant to. "You what?"
"I telegraphed Mother. Aunt Catherine agreed with me, saying she couldn't see how one should be kept from knowing her own daughter's illness -- it's about the only thing we could agree on."
"I was just going to do the very same," said George in a placating tone for the benefit of Emma, who still looked livid.
"Yes, I suppose so," Emma sighed. "However, you must return to Rosefield straightaway, before any harm is done."
"But couldn't I see Annie just once?" pleaded Elizabeth plaintively with a quivering lip. She hastily brought up a hand to her eyes.
Emma's own eyes softened, but she said -- firmly, yet gently -- "No."
Elizabeth could only obey, but not before she cast a wistful glance up the stairway. She thought she could hear Annie's sweet voice calling out, but she could not be sure -- like everything about Anne, it was so eminently delicate and ephemeral.
Anticipation for Mrs. March's arrival washed over everyone, and seemed to bring a breath of fresh air through the house. Something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms: everything appeared to feel the hopeful change.
Every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly and repeatedly, "Mother's coming!"
Everyone rejoiced but Anne. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the dear face so changed and vacant, and the once pretty, well-kept hair so rough and tangled on the pillow; she only roused now and then to mutter, ‘water' with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word.
All day Emma and Jane hovered over her: watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother. But night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of 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, laid down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep. But the girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with a dreadful sense of powerlessness.
When the clock struck twelve, they fancied that 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 -- another hour, still no one came -- anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington haunted the girls.
It was past two, when Emma, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked, heard a movement by the bed -- and turning quickly, saw Jane kneeling before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over her.
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; the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Emma felt no desire to weep or lament. Leaning low over her dear sister, she kissed the damp forehead in a silent farewell.
As if awoken by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, and hurried to the bed. She looked at Anne, 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 sleeps natural -- her skin's damp -- she breathes easy -- praise be given! Praise be given!"
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, "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, they 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 Anne 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.
"I shall ask Charlie to tell Lizzy the happy tidings," Jane said softly, gazing at her sleeping sister with bright, happy eyes. "She will be glad, as Annie will to see Mother when she wakes."
"If she would only come now!" murmured Emma, as the night began to wane.
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to Jane and Emma, as they looked out on the radiant, clear morning, swathed in effervescent sunshine.
"It looks like a fairy world," Emma smiled gently, drawing aside the curtain.
"See," said Jane, coming up with a white, half-opened rose. "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Annie's hand tomorrow -- if she -- well, never mind. 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."
As Jane tenderly set the rose in the vase, Emma cried, "Listen!" -- for there came a sound of bells a door below, a cry from Hannah -- and a joyful whisper,
"She's come! She's come!