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The March Girls

Chapter 12

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 infto 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, iwe/i 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 imost/i 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.

For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighbourhood. 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 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 Endeavour deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.

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.