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The March Girls
Chapter Ten
"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 dark outside yet, and I won't be very long."
"Are you sure?" said her mother, glancing out the window. The summer sun 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."