“I know I can’t seem to keep my hands on them or them on my hands, but what of Father’s relapse? The event occurred while Brooke was present at his bedside.”
“Oh, my dear, you can’t imagine what a crowded place the hospital was, hordes of people in and out and about, scattering from one end to the other, comforting the sick and dying, their loved ones hovering and helping and grieving. Any one of a hundred people could have done it.”
“But any one of those hundred didn’t do it,” Jo began.
Her mother interrupted her with a soft shake of her head. “You’re tired from lack of sleep and exhausted from worry and not thinking clearly. Go to your coffin and have a nice, long rest. You’ll see things differently in the evening when you wake.”
“Well, I won’t,” Jo said, “but I won’t plague you with it anymore. It’s just that I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out.”
“What’s that about crisscrosses and snarls?” asked Meg, as she crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand. She’d heard the entire conversation but thought it better not to reveal that, for she was far too tired to argue with Jo.
“Only one of my stupid speeches. I’m going to sleep. Come, Peggy,” said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
“Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John,” said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.
“Do you call him ‘John’?” asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother’s.
“Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,” replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one.
“I’m glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here,” was Meg’s answer.
The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to.”
Chapter Sixteen
PLEASANT MEADOWS
Like moonlight after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all night, amusing herself with well-beloved cats at first, and in time with doll’s sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a nightly airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands holding the curtains back from the window so “the dear” could see the full blaze of the sun safely from within the deep recess of the room, while Amy celebrated her return by making as many drawings of her sisters as she could prevail on them to accept.
As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
Several nights of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Eve. Hannah “felt in her bones” that it was going to be an unusually fine holiday, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth felt uncommonly well that evening, and, being dressed in her mother’s gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables27 had done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had worked most of the night and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer.
How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them.
“I’m so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn’t hold one drop more,” said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious kittens Santa had brought her.
“So am I,” added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Mr. Bloody Wobblestone’s Scientifical Method for Tracking, Catching, and Destroying Vampire Slayers.
“I’m sure I am,” echoed Amy, juggling a pair of fang enhancements, which her mother had given her.
“Of course I am!” cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. “How can I be otherwise?” said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband’s letter to Beth’s smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast.
Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, “Here’s another Christmas present for the March family.”
Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn’t. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.
Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father’s boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, “Hush! Remember Beth.”
But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her father’s arms. Never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.
It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, wrestling with the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.
Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn’t like to have something to eat. Jo
saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get a carafe of pig’s blood, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, “I hate estimable young men with brown eyes who try to kill us all!”
There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, squawking, screeching, and flapping. Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly. The humans ate plum pudding, which Laurie brought with him, for he knew the reliable old vampire servant wouldn’t know the first thing about making plum pudding that melted in one’s mouth. Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chickens. They drank healths, told stories, sang songs, “reminisced,” as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as morning gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
“Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?” asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.
“Rather a pleasant year on the whole!” said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity.
“I think it’s been a pretty hard one,” observed Amy, thinking of all the hours she’d spent watching Aunt March sleep in her armchair.
“I’m glad it’s over, because we’ve got you back,” whispered Beth, who sat on her father’s knee.
Mr. March looked with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered around him and talked at some length of how proud he was of them all. He complimented Meg on her torn gown for it meant she’d worked hard and learned to value steady employment over fleeting fashion. He pointed to Jo’s straight collar and neatly laced boots as proof that she had finally outgrown her wild-girl ways and gracefully accepted the yoke of womanhood. He praised Amy’s willingness to run errands for her mother and wait on everyone with patience and good humor, for his youngest daughter had learned subservience. And what of Beth? He was afraid to say much, for fear she would slip away altogether, though, he said, recalling the Great Change she had wrought in Mr. Laurence, she was not so shy as she used to be.
Jo closed her eyes and listened to the beautiful familiarity of her father’s voice, his gentle and wise intonations. Having him home was a much-cherished present but even more precious was having the whole family together, all the Marches gathered sweetly under one roof, safe and protected from the bright of the day. She swore that she would keep them that way, that no harm would come to them, and that John Brooke would regret the day he decided to challenge her. She didn’t doubt she would defeat him, for she was still that wild girl, despite her collars and laces. Tomorrow, she would begin the hunt, following her quarry, gathering evidence, and proving her case, but today was still Christmas and they would sing hymns at Beth’s piano until long past noon.
Chapter Seventeen
AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION
Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next night, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth’s sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then “to peek at the dear man,” nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression as their eyes followed Jo, who had sudden fits of sobriety and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke’s umbrella, which had been left in the hall. During their late night consultation on the subject of Jo’s misconception (Mrs. March refused to call it a delusion, though that was precisely how she thought of it), Mr. March urged patience. So many events had happened in the course of the year, it was no surprise that even the most stalwart of their beloved daughters was feeling the effects. They discussed pulling her from Gentleman Jackson’s salon, as her time there seemed to have aided and abetted her outlandish belief, but they didn’t want to disturb her further.
Meg, who could not help but ponder Jo’s lunatic notion, was absentminded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and averted her eyes when John’s name was mentioned. Amy said, “Everyone seemed waiting for something, and couldn’t settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home,” and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn’t run over as usual.
As she watched Meg, Jo plotted her next step. Convincing her parents of John’s duplicity was important, but not as crucial as stopping him before he made another attempt on one of their lives. So far her family had escaped permanent damage but she didn’t doubt that he would step up his attacks now that he knew his original scheme had failed.
Tracking a slayer came with an interesting set of challenges, as it could be done only after dark, the time when slayers were at their most alert. For generations, vampires had tried to create a sunbathing costume that would allow them to go abroad safely and discreetly during daylight hours but so far no such suit had been invented.28 Jo, therefore, had to sneak into John’s room, most likely while he was asleep, and risk discovery, although that risk was somewhat mitigated by her proficiency in skulking, which she had mastered at the salon. Her instructor had been much impressed with how easily she adopted the Berryman Technique29 for gliding across the floor without seeming to move her legs.
Jo was biding her time until the small hours of the morning, when, at nine P.M., a modest tap sounded on the door, which she opened with a grim aspect that was anything but hospitable.
“Good evening. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself this night,” said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from Jo’s face to Meg’s.
“It’s very well, he’s in the rack. I’ll get him, and tell it you are here.” And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo ran out of the room to take immediate advantage of Brooke’s vacated establishment.
The instant her sister vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring…
“Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I’ll call her.”
“Don’t go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?” and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg felt a fresh spurt of anger at Jo for planting absurd ideas in her head. Of course the man before her wasn’t a slayer! He was everything that was lovely and kind and gentle. She was perfectly ridiculous for letting Jo’s accusations affect her at all. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully…
“How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it.”
“Shall I tell you how?” asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
“Oh no, please don’t, I’d rather not,” she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
“I won’t trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear,” added Mr. Brooke tenderly.
This was the moment for the calm, proper speech she’d practiced (“Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were”), but Meg didn’t make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, “I don’t know,” so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.
He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, “Will you try and find out? I want to know so much, for I can’t go t
o work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not.”
“I’m too young,” faltered Meg, wondering why she was so flustered, yet rather enjoying it.
“I’ll wait. To be honest, I’m not quite ready at this very moment to become a vampire, as it’s a rather significant life change and I would like some time to grow more accustomed to it. As well, I’m very fond of the sun and love to feel it beat down on my face. But in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?”
“Not if I chose to learn it, but…”
“Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German,” broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.
His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. Struck by his easy confidence, she wondered again if Jo could have possibly been right. If he had targeted her whole family for destruction, then wouldn’t he be excited at the thought of achieving his goal? Feeling an uncomfortable sense of impending doom, she said, “I don’t choose. Please go away and let me be!”
Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
“Do you really mean that?” he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.
“Yes, I do. I don’t want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn’t, it’s too soon and I’d rather not.”
“Mayn’t I hope you’ll change your mind by-and-by? I’ll wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don’t play with me, Meg. I didn’t think that of you.”
Little Vampire Women Page 13