CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SECRETS
Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly,
and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in
the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her
papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat,
promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine
young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite
absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when
she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen, exclaiming…
“There, I’ve done my best! If this won’t suit I shall have to wait till I can
do better.”
Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through,
making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points,
which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red
ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression,
which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo’s desk up here
was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her
papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being
likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such
books as were left in his way by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle
Jo produced another manuscript, and putting both in her pocket, crept
quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her
ink.
She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the
back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself
down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once
there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to
town, looking very merry and mysterious.
If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements
decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she
reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place
with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs,
and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and
walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated several
times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in
the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave
herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs,
looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
There was a dentist’s sign, among others, which adorned the entrance,
and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened
and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on
his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite
doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, “It’s like her to come alone, but
if she has a bad time she’ll need someone to help her home.”
In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the
general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal
of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but
pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of
sympathy, “Did you have a bad time?”
“Not very.”
“You got through quickly.”
“Yes, thank goodness!”
“Why did you go alone?”
“Didn’t want anyone to know.”
“You’re the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?”
Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to
laugh as if mightily amused at something.
“There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week.”
“What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo,” said
Laurie, looking mystified.
“So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, it wasn’t a billiard saloon, but a
gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Why?”
“You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes,
and we’ll make a fine thing of the fencing scene.”
Laurie burst out with a hearty boy’s laugh, which made several passers-
by smile in spite of themselves.
“I’ll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not. It’s grand fun and will
straighten you up capitally. But I don’t believe that was your only reason for
saying ‘I’m glad’ in that decided way, was it now?”
“No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never
go to such places. Do you?”
“Not often.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“It’s no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it’s no fun unless you have
good players, so, as I’m fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with
Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, for you’ll get to liking it better and better, and
will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope
you’d stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,” said Jo,
shaking her head.
“Can’t a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without
losing his respectability?” asked Laurie, looking nettled.
“That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don’t like Ned and his
set, and wish you’d keep out of it. Mother won’t let us have him at our
house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won’t be
willing to have us frolic together as we do now.”
“Won’t she?” asked Laurie anxiously.
“No, she can’t bear fashionable young men, and she’d shut us all up in
bandboxes rather than have us associate with them.”
“Well, she needn’t get out her bandboxes yet. I’m not a fashionable party
and don’t mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, don’t
you?”
“Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don’t get wild, will you? Or
there will be an end of all our good times.”
“I’ll be a double distilled saint.”
“I can’t bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we’ll
never desert you. I don’t know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King’s
son. He had plenty of money, but didn’t know how to spend it, and got tipsy
and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father’s name, I believe, and was
altogether horrid.”
“You think I’m likely to do the same? Much obliged.”
“No, I don’t—oh, dear, no!—but I hear people talking about money
being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn’t
worry then.”
“Do you worry about me, Jo?”
“A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do,
for you’ve got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I’m afraid
it would be hard to stop you.”
Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she
had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if
at her warnings.
“Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?” he asked presently.
“Of course not. Why?”
“Because if you are, I’ll take a bus. If you’re not, I’d like to walk with
you and tell you something very interesting.”
“I won’t preach any more, and I’d like to hear the news immensely.”
“Very well, then, come on. It’s a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me
yours.”
“I haven’t got any,” began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that
she had.
“You know you have—you can’t hide anything, so up and ’fess, or I
won’t tell,” cried Laurie.
“Is your secret a nice one?”
“Oh, isn’t it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear
it, and I’ve been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin.”
“You’ll not say anything about it at home, will you?”
“Not a word.”
“And you won’t tease me in private?”
“I never tease.”
“Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don’t know
how you do it, but you are a born wheedler.”
“Thank you. Fire away.”
“Well, I’ve left two stories with a newspaperman, and he’s to give his
answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.
“Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!” cried
Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two
ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out
of the city now.
“Hush! It won’t come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn’t rest till I had
tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn’t want anyone else to be
disappointed.”
“It won’t fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared
to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won’t it be fun to see them
in print, and shan’t we feel proud of our authoress?”
Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a
friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
“Where’s your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I’ll never believe you again,”
she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of
encouragement.
“I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn’t promise not to, so I will,
for I never feel easy in my mind till I’ve told you any plummy bit of news I
get. I know where Meg’s glove is.”
“Is that all?” said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and
twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
“It’s quite enough for the present, as you’ll agree when I tell you where it
is.”
“Tell, then.”
Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo’s ear, which produced a
comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both
surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, “How do you
know?”
“Saw it.”
“Where?”
“Pocket.”
“All this time?”
“Yes, isn’t that romantic?”
“No, it’s horrid.”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I don’t. It’s ridiculous, it won’t be allowed. My patience!
What would Meg say?”
“You are not to tell anyone. Mind that.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“That was understood, and I trusted you.”
“Well, I won’t for the present, anyway, but I’m disgusted, and wish you
hadn’t told me.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.”
“You’ll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away.”
“I’d like to see anyone try it,” cried Jo fiercely.
“So should I!” and Laurie chuckled at the idea.
“I don’t think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since
you told me that,” said Jo rather ungratefully.
“Race down this hill with me, and you’ll be all right,” suggested Laurie.
No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and
finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and
comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal
first and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for his Atlanta
came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of
dissatisfaction in her face.
“I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and
not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it’s made me. Go, pick
up my things, like a cherub, as you are,” said Jo, dropping down under a
maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.
Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up
her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But
someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly
ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.
“What in the world are you doing here?” she asked, regarding her
disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.
“Getting leaves,” meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had
just swept up.
“And hairpins,” added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo’s lap. “They
grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats.”
“You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such
romping ways?” said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and
smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
“Never till I’m stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don’t try to make
me grow up before my time, Meg. It’s hard enough to have you change all
of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can.”
As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for
lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and
Laurie’s secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some
time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew
Meg’s attention from it by asking quickly, “Where have you been calling,
all so fine?”
“At the Gardiners’, and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle
Moffat’s wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the
winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!”
“Do you envy her, Meg?” said Laurie.
“I’m afraid I do.”
“I’m glad of it!” muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
“Why?” asked Meg, looking surprised.
“Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a
poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to
mind what she said.
“I shall never ‘go and marry’ anyone,” observed Meg, walking on with
great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping
stones, and ‘behaving like children’, as Meg said to herself, though she
might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite
bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr.
Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone
face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very
mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one
another, and talking about ‘Spread Eagles’ till the girls declared they had
both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window,
Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of
Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing her in Amy’s
bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were
heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of
newspapers.
“What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young
lady,” sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
“I hope she won’t. She is so funny and dear as she is,” said Beth, who
had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo’s having secrets with
anyone but her.
“It’s very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo,” added Amy,
who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very
becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant
and ladylike.
In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to
read.
“Have you anything interesting there?” asked Meg, with condescension.
“Nothing but a story, won’t amount to much, I guess,” returned Jo,
carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
“You’d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of
mischief,” said Amy in her most grown-up tone.
“What’s the name?” asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind
the sheet.
“The Rival Painters.”
“That sounds well. Read it,” said Meg.
With a loud “Hem!” and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The
girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat
pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. “I like that about the
splendid picture,” was Amy’s approving remark, as Jo paused.
“I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite
names, isn’t that queer?” said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part
was tragical.
“Who wrote it?” asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo’s face.
The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed
countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied
in a loud voice, “Your sister.”
“You?” cried Meg, dropping her work.
“It’s very good,” said Amy critically.
“I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!” and Beth ran to hug her
sister and exult over this splendid success.
Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn’t
believe it till she saw the words. “Miss Josephine March,” actually printed
in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the story,
and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn’t be carried out,
as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and skipped and
sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, “Sakes alive, well I never!”
in great astonishment at ‘that Jo’s doin’s’. How proud Mrs. March was
when she knew it. How Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared
she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how the ‘Spread
Eagle’ might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of
March, as the paper passed from hand to hand.
“Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “How much did you get for it?”
“What will Father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all in one
breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate people
made a jubilee of every little household joy.
“Stop jabbering, girls, and I’ll tell you everything,” said Jo, wondering if
Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did over her ‘Rival
Painters’. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, “And when I
went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn’t pay
beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was
good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would
pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and
Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said
it was good, and I shall write more, and he’s going to get the next paid for,
and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the
girls.”
Jo’s breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she
bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be independent and
earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and
this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.
