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  “I have some very interesting news,” he said. “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 applied for entrance to Gentleman Jackson’s Preparatory Salon for the Training of Vampire Defenders, and he’s to give his answer next week,” whispered Jo, in her confidant’s ear.

  “Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American defender!” 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, since he’s never accepted a female before, 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, you are a born defender compared with half the rabble Gentleman Jackson trains daily. Won’t it be fun to see you in the graduating class, and shan’t we feel proud?”

  Jo’s eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend’s praise is always sweeter than a dozen acceptances.

  “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 a human coming to take Meg away? No, thank you.”

  “You’ll feel better about it when a human comes to take you away.”

  “I’d like to see a human 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.

  Something about Brooke’s interest in Meg didn’t sit comfortably with her, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. In word and deed, he was unfailingly polite and courteous, but he had a steady, careful gaze that seemed to take in everything. Sometimes she felt as if he looked at them all like they were strange, foreign creatures.

  He had the eyes of a slayer, she realized. That was it exactly. And wouldn’t his being a slayer explain the stolen glove as well? Laurie thought his tutor treasured it as a love token, but Jo wasn’t so naïve. No, she’d walked the earth decades longer than he, read Seven Signs of a Slayer at least seven times, and survived a staking (though, she readily admitted, through no fault of her own). Mr. John Brooke had evil designs on her sister and perhaps her whole family. She knew it to be true with every fiber of her being. She didn’t have the scientific proof yet but her instincts told her Brooke was a dangerous threat.

  “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. She reached the goal a good two minutes before Laurie, who was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for as he approached he saw no signs of unhappiness in Jo’s face. He was, however, perversely unsatisfied with his own performance, even though he knew his own deplorably human legs could in no way compete with Jo’s swift vampire limbs.

  “That was capital,” said Jo, exuberant from the exercise. She adored being able to run miles in the splendid air, and not lose her breath, rather like a horse. Poor humans with their huffing and puffing. “But see what a guy it’s made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are.” She dropped 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. 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, even if Brooke proved to be the villain she supposed, must surely come sometime and now seemed very near. Laurie saw the trouble in Jo’s 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 sire a poor man,” said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.

  “I shall never ‘go and sire’ 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.
As soon as she woke at dusk, she ran to the door to check the post, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woebegone 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, 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.21 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 papers.

  “What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young vampire 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.

  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 letter from a salon in town,” returned Jo, hiding her face behind the sheet.

  “You’d better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief,” said Amy in her most grown-up tone.

  With a loud “Hem!” Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest as the writer thanked the candidate for her application to their esteemed institution, congratulated her on her impressive qualifications, and offered her a place among their newly forming squad of vampire defenders.

  “You?” cried Meg, dropping her work. “You’ve been accepted to Gentleman Jackson’s salon?”

  “They’ve never taken a girl before,” said Amy.

  “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, Cadet,” actually printed on the invitation to join the class. How graciously Amy complimented the salon’s training methods and success rate in tracking and apprehending slayers. 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, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how Gentleman Jackson’s salon might be said to have established an annex in the House of March, as the girls promised to study with Jo at home.

  “Tell us about it.” “When did it come?” “When did you do it?” “What will Father say?” “Won’t Laurie laugh?” cried the family, all at once 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 her uncle had felt the same excitement when he had gained admittance to the salon. “When I went for an interview, Gentleman Jackson said he liked my qualifications but he didn’t accept girls, only let them watch the men training. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, so did the observer. Well, I thought that was mightily unfair, so I let him know exactly how I felt. I told him all about Uncle March and his library and the training sessions we have here and my job as protectress of my aunt and that it was absurd to exclude a girl whose qualifications he liked just because she was a girl. He listened patiently and said he’d think about it and he must have decided it was unfair because he accepted me, and I’m so happy, for in time, I may be able to support myself and help the girls.”

  Jo’s triumphant tale ended here, and clutching the letter dearly, she pressed soft little kisses on it, 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.

  Chapter Eleven

  A TELEGRAM

  “November is the most agreeable month in the whole year,” said Amy, standing at the window one bright evening, looking out at the frostbitten garden, “for the nights last so long and one can finally finish all of one’s errands.”

  “That’s the reason I was born in it,” observed Jo cheerfully.

  “It’s one of those months in which pleasant things happen,” said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything.

  “Nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,” said Meg, made suddenly out of sorts by her sister’s unfounded optimism. “We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill.”

  “My patience, how blue you are!” cried Jo. “I don’t much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don’t I wish I could manage things for you! You’re pretty enough and good enough already, so if I could I’d have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly. Then you’d dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of splendor and elegance.”

  Meg laughed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo smiled and leaned both elbows on the table in a relaxed attitude, but Amy spatted22 away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, said cheerfully, “Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice to tell.”

  In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, “Any letter from Father, girls?” and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, “Won’t some of you come for a drive? I’ve been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I’m going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It’s a dull night, but the air isn’t bad, and I’m going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn’t out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won’t you?”

  “Of course we will.”

  “Much obliged, but I’m busy.” And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive too often with the young tutor, whose interest they’d both observed.

  “We three will be ready in a minute,” cried Amy, running away to wash her hands.

  “Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?” asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March’s chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her.

  “No, thank you, except call at the office, if you’ll be so kind, dear. It’s our day for a letter, and the postman hasn’t been. Father is as regular as the sun, but there’s some delay on the way, perhaps.”

  A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter.

  “It’s one of them telegraph things, Mum,” she said, handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.

  At the word “telegraph,” Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as frail as if the little paper had sent a stake through her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for pig’s blood, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice…

  Mrs. March:

  Your husband is very ill. Come at once.

  S. HALE

  Blank Hospital, Washington.

  How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strange the message, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls and their mother tried to comprehend the notion of a sick vampire, for never before in the long history of immortals had one fallen ill. Plenty died in the heat of battle or the sun, but none had ever been stricken with a disease.

  “What does that mean?” asked Jo.

  “Ill in what manner?” said Beth.

  “What kind of sickness could he have caught?” Amy wondered.

  “I’m sure we didn’t hear that right,” Meg insisted.

  Mrs. March read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, “I shall go at once.”

  For s
everal minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that it may all yet be a mistake.

  “Perhaps there’s another Mr. March in the army and they sent us his telegram,” suggested Jo.

  This indeed seemed a rather likely explanation, for there could be as many as four or five Marches, and the family immediately fell into sympathizing for the poor unidentified family who had unknowingly suffered such a devastating blow.

  “We should send something,” insisted Meg.

  “Flowers,” said Jo.

  “Chocolates,” said Amy.

  “Black veils,” said Beth. “We could sew them ourselves.”

  “Be calm, girls, and let me think,” said Marmee.

  They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking distracted but steady, and put away her puzzlement to think and plan for them.

  “Where’s Laurie?” she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.

  “Here, ma’am. Oh, let me do something!” cried the boy, hurrying from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.

  “Send a telegram saying I will come at once to inspect the identity of this so-called Mr. March. The next train goes after midnight. I’ll take that.”

  “What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything,” he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.

  “Leave a note at Aunt March’s. Jo, give me that pen and paper.”

  Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, probably unnecessary journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for the desperately ill stranger.

  “Now go, dear, but don’t kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. There is no need of that.”

  Mrs. March’s warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.