Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV.

SECRETS.

JO was very busy up 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 at 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 don'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 down stairs,

leaving her friends to nibble 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 any one 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 door-way, 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

manœuvre 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 was 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 door-way, saying, with a

smile and a shiver,—

"It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad

time she'll need some one to help her home."

In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs 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 quick."

"Yes, thank goodness!"

"Why did you go alone?"

"Didn't want any one 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 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 or 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 still 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 are

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 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 newspaper man, 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 any one else to be

disappointed."

"It won't fail! Why, Jo, your stories are works

of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that's

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's 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 any one; mind that."

"I didn't promise."

"That was understood, and I trusted you."

"Well, I won't for the present, any way; 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 any one 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 hair-pins 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 some one

did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking

particularly lady-like in her state and festival suit, for she

had been making calls.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she

asked, regarding her dishevelled sister with well-bred

surprise.

"Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the

rosy handful she had just swept up.

"And hair-pins," 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 her work 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' any one," 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 got 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 to 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 any one but her.

"It's very trying, but we never can make her comme

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, which made her feel

unusually elegant and lady-like.

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; don't amount to much, I

guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of

the paper out of sight.

"You'd better read it loud; 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 criticised 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 sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at "that Jo's doins;" 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, any one 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 oh—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.