Chapter: XIV. 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 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 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 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 quickly."

"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 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 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 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 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.

                 [Illustration: Hurrah for Miss March]

"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 is published every day. Won't it be
fun to see them in print; and sha'n'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 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 Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright
eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.

                     [Illustration: Jo darted away]

"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
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
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 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' 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 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 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 _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, which made her feel unusually
elegant and ladylike.

In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected
to read.

    [Illustration: Jo 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! O 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
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 all 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 to-day 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.

 Secrets Jo finishes a manuscript and then goes into town on a mysterious errand. Laurie sees her from a gymnasium, which Jo mistakes for a billiard saloon and chastises him. Laurie says he only goes to saloons occasionally, but Jo warns him to be careful not to get too wild, or Mother will prevent him visiting, as she does other fashionable gentlemen like Ned Moffat. After the lecture, Laurie and Jo agree to exchange secrets. Jo has left two stories with a newspaperman, and is waiting to see if he will print them, and Laurie encourages her. Laurie's secret is that John Brooke has one of Meg's gloves, which is why only one was returned in Chapter 12. Laurie thinks the budding romance is quite lovely, but Jo feels upset and confused. To make her feel better, Laurie convinces her to run down the hill with him, like a boy. Jo gives in, and feels better, but Meg comes along and chastises her for romping. Jo defends herself, never wishing to grow old, feeling already that Meg is growing away from her. Meg is coming from hearing about a lovely wedding and confesses to being envious, which Jo says she is glad for so that Meg will never marry someone poor. For the next two weeks, Jo acts very strangely, is rude to Mr. Brooke, attached to Meg, and always laughing with Laurie. Jo comes in one day with a newspaper story and reads it aloud to the girls, who quite like it, and are shocked to learn that Jo is the author. Jo is delighted that someday she may be able to write to support herself and help the family

