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The March Girls
Chapter 13
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!"